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THE LONG RUN
A Tale of the Continuing Time
Daniel Keys Moran




BANTAM BOOKS




Table of Contents
  THE LONG RUN
  The Last Summer of His Youth, 2069 Gregorian

    1-
    2-
    3-
    4-
    5-
    6-
    7-

  The Long Run, 2069 Gregorian

    1-
    2-
    3-
    4-
    5-
    6-

  The Wall, 2069-2070 Gregorian

  Vie de Jesus, 1863 Gregorian

    1-
    2-
    3-
    4-
    5-
    6-
    7-
    8-
    9-
    10-
    11-
    12-
    13-
    14-
    15-
    16-
    17-

  Epilogue
  ABOUT THE AUTHOR





I killed my love to set him free For fear Id cause him pain
I killed himwe were very young And now Im old again
We lived a life together once
And I was so afraid For every life Ive lived, Ive died
For every life Ive made
I killed my love to set him free
He wasnt hard to kill He ran into another life
I guess hes running still

Mahliya Kutura Many Lives Street Songs, 2078 Gregorian




THE LONG RUN
^  
On July 3, 2062, the United Nations Peace Keeping Force, under the command of 
Peaceforcer Elite Sergeant Mohammed Vance, used tactical thermonuclear weapons 
to destroy a group of genetically engineered telepaths living at the Chandler 
Complex in lower Manhattan.
Men and women who would not be slaves to the Peaceforcers.
On July 3, 2062, over two hundred and forty telepathic adults and children died 
in nuclear fire.
In the battle preceding their destruction, the telepaths sent better than a 
quarter of the population of the state of New York into permanent insanity; 
caused the two years of the Troubles, as legal and social systems throughout 
metropolitan areas broke down beyond hope of repair. The old order could not be 
resurrected; the Peaceforcers created the Patrol Sectors, and left the vast bulk 
of what had once been New York City to become the lethal, desolate area known as 
the Fringe.
Three children from the Chandler Complex survived the destruction of the 
telepaths. Two of them were the nine-year-old twins David and Denice 
Castanaveras, the children of Carl Castanaveras and Jany McConnell.
The third child was not a telepath. He was a webdancer.
A Player.
His name was Trent.
Seven years have passed




The Last Summer of His Youth
2069 Gregorian
1-
 ^  
Youre Trent.
I am?
The young man was conservatively dressed: a gray jacket and black pants, and a 
white silk shirt that shone brilliantly even in the dim light from LExpresss 
outdoor glowfloats. He wore immaculately clean white running shoes; there was a 
single flat ruby stud in the lobe of his left ear. Trents temples, where an 
inskin InfoNet link might have been implanted, were merely smooth skin. His hair 
was sandy blond, cut short, and he either wore no makeup or had turned it off.
He wore flat black sunglasses though they were hardly necessary.
It was ten minutes after six oclock.
Youre younger than Id expected, said the middle-aged man who had said his 
name was Jerry Jackson. On the phone Trent had not noticed it, but in person his 
voice held the faint but definite traces of a Southern accent.
Am I?
And youre late, the man said. Despite the air, heavy with ozone as though a 
thunderstorm were about to strike, Jackson had taken a table outside beneath the 
gray-black skies, on the balcony level overlooking the eternally crowded 
streets.
Ten minutes late Trent shrugged. Ten minutes older.
He seated himself across the table from Jerry Jackson. To the waitbot which had 
led him to the table he said, A pot of coffee. With cream, no sugar.
The waitbot paused, then said mildly, in the rich baritone characteristic of 
opera singers, newsdancers and politicians, Monsieur, that item is not on the 
menu.
Waiter, please, said Trent. They both waited while the waitbot rolled away out 
of listening range.
LExpress sat on the western edge of what had once been the Brooklyn Navy Yard, 
and was now one of the most expensive residential areas in all the Patrol 
Sectors. From where he sat Trent could see to the northwest, on the other side 
of the East River, the scarlet sparks of spacecraft rising and descending at 
Unification Spaceport in lower Manhattan. The dull, distant boom of craft 
breaking through the sound barrier touched him every twenty seconds or so.
Eight spacescrapers reared high above the skyline, eight three- to 
five-kilometer-tall buildings; two of them did nothing but house Peaceforcers 
and the babychasers from the Ministry of Population Control: the Left and Right 
Hands of the Devil Himself, Secretary-General Charles Eddore.
Trent said, How did you get referred to me?
Jackson said smoothly, Youre in the Directory.
That wasnt the question.
Jerry Jackson was drinking something cold and green, with crushed ice in it. He 
wore an exquisitely tailored blue pinstripe suit. A brushed aluminum attach 
case stood upright beside his chair. The cuffs of his sleeves were fastened 
European style, folded back upon themselves. Actually, Booker Jamethon gave me 
your name.
Bookers a great guy, said Trent.
He said I shouldnt hire you, that youre not dependable.
Of course, said Trent instantly, all those years on the juice, they werent 
good for him.
Jerry Jackson smiled for the first time.  Sieur Jamethon wanted the job 
himself. He only gave me your namefor a feeafter I turned him down.
Tell me about the job.
You know CalleyTronics?
Trents pause was very brief. Its located on the eighth floor of the Down 
Plaza. They sell inskins and image coprocessors, MPU hardware, like that. Half 
the webdancers I know buy from them.
Frank Calley, said Jerry Jackson with a very convincing display of anger, is 
a thief. He lifted fifteen terabytes of hot RAM, a hundred and five thousand 
Credit Units worth of room-temperature superconductor memory, from mah warehouse 
in Georgia. Under the stress of anger, the accent became more audible.
A single drop of rain touched down on the transparent tabletop in front of 
Trent.
Let me guess, Trent said.
Guess?
You want me to get your RTS back.
Yes.
What do you think you know about me?
A touch of the anger was back in his voice. Youre supposed to be a thief 
yourself. The word thief was, laced with an astonishing amount of disdain. You 
hire out to steal things for people. You
A second drop of rain joined the first. Jerry Jackson cut himself off as a 
waiter, after an anxious glance at the sky, hurried out to where they were 
seated.
Monsieur, said the waiter hurriedly, with a French accent which might have 
been real, you wished to order a cup of coffee?
A pot, Trent corrected him. A whole big pot of coffee.
Monsieur, we do not sell coffee by the pot, only by the cup.
May I speak to your manager?
The waiters features stiffened visibly. Oi. One moment, monsieur.
Trent waited until the waiter had gone back inside. So you want me to boost 
fifteen terabytes of RTS from CalleyTronics?
Yes.
Trent counted five drops of rain on the cut-crystal surface of the table. Six. 
It probably cant be donea straight boost, I mean. Calleys real tight with 
the power structure in the Patrol Sectors, and his securitys pretty good. Youd 
be better off with a con, something that would leave him wondering if hed been 
hitnot sureand feeling so stupid he wouldnt dare go to the Peaceforcers with 
it for fear of being laughed at.
Jerry Jackson leaned forward with what seemed to Trent to be honest curiosity. 
What do you have in mind?
I dont know. Whats good here?
Regarding Calley, Jerry Jackson said with great control, what do you have in 
mind?
Trent looked at the man blankly. Nothing. Im not going to boost Frank Calley 
for you, and Im not going to con him either. Look, have you ever eaten here 
before?
Never.
Oh. Too bad. Usually when I go to a new restaurant I like to go with somebody 
whos been there before, so I know whats good. You may not know this, said 
Trent thoughtfully, but two years ago a Player scored some image coprocessor 
hardware off CalleyTronics, chanted Calleys accounting computer to believe the 
hardware had been properly paid for, and had it shipped to a drop box. It took 
Calley half a year to find out whod done it, but that summer they fished a 
corpse out of the East River. His teeth had been pulled with pliers, his eyes 
were poked out, his fingers had been chopped off, and his features defaced with 
acid. They identified him by his inskin.
You wont take the job?
Am I being asked?
Yes.
No.
Jackson took a deep breath. Why not?
Trent shrugged. No percentage. If I was going to, Id do a con to get Calley 
coming after me, get him to believe I had something he wanted. But Im not going 
to. The guys mean, but hes also pretty straight; guys like him always go to 
the Peaceforcers.
A gorgeous, mature woman in a black evening gown came out to their table, with 
the waiter a few steps behind her. Monsieur?
Yes? said Trent politely.
For some reason his response seemed to throw her. Her accent was considerably 
better than the waiters; Trent would have bet she was actually French. You 
wished to order
Coffee.
An entire pot?
Please.
We do not sell coffee by the pot, monsieur. We do not even have a pot to put 
the coffee in; the coffee is brewed in a single largeshe hesitated, searching 
for a wordvat? Yes, vat, brewed in a vat in the morning, and then put in 
stasis and poured from stasis a cup at a time.
Okay. I want five, no, make that seven, seven cups of coffee, each one about 
fifteen percent cream, one right after the other. Send the waitbot out with a 
cup, give it about five minutes and send it out again. Do that until I tell it 
to stop.
Monsieur, she said, stress making it difficult for Trent to follow her words, 
we have only three waitbots. If we do this we must assign a waitbot to do 
nothing but service your table, and this will affect the other patrons.
Damn it, Jerry Jackson exploded, what is this nonsense? Take the goddamn 
coffee in a cup. Are you here to talk business or what?
Raindrops were striking Trent square in the face. The manager looked back and 
forth between the two of them in confusion. Youre sure? Trent asked her. 
Its simply not possible to have the cups just keep coming?
Monsieur, protested the manager in such horribly accented English that Trent 
could barely follow her, I do not think we can.
Its okay, said Trent, standing, were done. To Jerry Jackson he said, Ive 
really got to go; Im late for another appointment. He turned back once before 
leaving. Next time, he said as Jerry Jackson stared, you have to take me 
someplace classier.




2-
 ^  
Once there was a thief, and the thief was God.
The first line in The Exodus Bible.

It was a twenty-minute slidewalk trip from LExpress, at one end of the old 
Brooklyn Navy Yard, through streets lined by gray plastisteel residential high 
rises, to the Down Plaza at the other end of the development. Trent ran all the 
way. He was delayed just before he reached the Plaza when a bomb in a baby 
carriage blew up next to a pair of patrolling Peaceforcers, killing the 
Peaceforcers and several of the bystanders and tearing a hole in the slidewalk 
that brought the slidewalk to a shuddering, grinding stop. Despite his hurry 
Trent stopped running immediately, and walked without haste through the growing 
rain, away from the crowd that was gathering around the site of the explosion, 
walked straight as a laser the rest of the way to the Plaza maglev.
There were about twenty fashionable, damp, well-dressed people crowded onto the 
air-conditioned maglev platform as it descended beneath street level.
Trent was not particularly noticeable; because it was necessary for the job, so 
that he would not stand out from the other patrons inside CalleyTronics, Trent 
had dressed that day every bit as well as the children of the wealthy and 
privileged who swarmed through the eight huge, underground levels of the Down 
Plaza, the busiest shopping structure in all of the Patrol Sectors.
Most of those crowded onto the maglev platform, as it sank into the Down Plaza, 
were slender; a few of the less well-dressed were gaunt.
Two of them were fat. Somewhere in their mid-thirties, Trent guessed; they were 
French and they were female and they were very fat. Not counting the cyborg 
French Peaceforcers Elite, who came by their mass in honest metal and 
metal-ceramics, Trent had in his entire life never seen more gross tonnage on 
two bodies. Between the two of them they must have massed 250 kilos.
They were the last ones onto the maglev platform, already half loaded down with 
their packages and bags and umbrellas, chattering gaily in French so perfectly 
accented that there was no question in Trents mind as to their nationality. 
They could not be employed themselves, not by the U.N.; the U.N. had maximum 
weight standards. Wives, then, of United Nations officials transplanted from 
France to oversee in the governing of Occupied America.
Most United Nations officials were French, and most Peaceforcers as well; by the 
pure luck of the draw France had, almost alone among technological nations, come 
through the Unification War unscathed. In the rebuilding which took place 
following the Unification, the French had become a dominant force.
One of the fat women touched the dark pressure point marked five. The pressure 
point lit. Behind the dark lenses Trents eyelids drooped shut; through the 
traceset contact buried in the arms of the sunglasses he sent a single command 
to his Image.
The maglev descended five floors in relative silence, as people got on and off 
the platform at the various levels. The tower in which the maglev platform was 
located thrust up like a spear through the center of the Down Plaza; the shops 
were arrayed in a rough rectangle around the maglev tower. Hanging flat walkways 
connected the central maglev tower to the shops at each level; skywalks 
connected the various levels for those who preferred walking to using the 
maglev.
At Level Five, the maglev did not even slow. The two fat women broke off their 
conversation in consternation; one of them touched the pressure point for Level 
Five again. Trent said softly, Ladies?
They turned to look at him.
Did you know that on Level One theres one of the finest gyms in the city? And 
on Level Three theres a biosculptor who vacuums fat cells so you cant get 
fat. Trent smiled at them. Really. Its amazing, she just vacuums those fat 
cells right out. Whoosh!
The two fat women gaped at him. The platform had not stopped at Level Five; it 
did at Level Six, and half a dozen of the maglev platforms occupants got off; a 
couple more got on.
The gates closed again, and the platform descended.
On Level Four theres three cafes that serve empty food, no calories at all, 
Trent continued enthusiastically. Lefthanded sugars; you can really pig out. 
He stared at them with his sunglasses. It doesnt taste exactly the same, but 
thats not my fault.
Everybody left on the maglev platform was looking at them, at Trent and the two 
fat women. The maglev platform skipped Level Seven, where most of the small 
businesses were clustered, and opened up finally onto Level Eight, the bottom 
level of the huge plaza. People filed off slowly, stepping over or walking 
around the prone, twitching form of the juice junkie who blocked the walkway 
from the maglev platform, looking back as they did so at Trent and the French 
women. Trent turned to leave also and then suddenly, just the other side of the 
maglev gates, turned around to face the French women again.
Do you speak English? he demanded.
The one nearest him said in English, haughtily, very clearly, I do not speak 
English.
Oh. The maglev gates closed on the women, and the power on the platform 
suddenly died. The platform went dark. One hundred and fifteen million people, 
said Trent in his best French, died last year because there wasnt enough food 
for them. Behind the gate, on the maglev platform, the women were pushing 
frantically at the pressure points. Trent did not think they had even heard him. 
He looked at them for just a moment, stood watching them without expression from 
the other side of the gates. The one who was not punching at the pressure points 
suddenly became aware of Trent standing and watching them, and pleaded in 
French, Young man, will you call someone to let us out?
Turning away, Trent shook his head. Im already late, he muttered.
He almost tripped over the juice junkie.

The Crystal Wind is the Storm, and the Storm is Data, and the Data is Life.
The Players Litany

Heat rises; it was always notably cool on the bottom level of the Down Plaza.
Walking out onto Eight, those who were new to the Plaza, even New York natives, 
tended to gawk like tourists. The upper seven levels of the Down Plaza were 
illuminated by yellow light with a greenish tinge: a mixture of yellow sun-paint 
and the omnipresent, wavering, flickering light of the blue-green glowfloats in 
their eternal migration between the first and eighth levels of the Down Plaza.
Level Eight was a riot of color: glittering adholo, real neon and neon-laser and 
glowpaint. Eight was the only level with a floor, though those who spent any 
amount of time down on Eight learned to avoid those areas around the maglev 
tower where the ceiling opened up; the eight-level drop into the crowds was a 
favorite with jumpers.
Eight was easily the most popular level in the Plaza. There was a whorehouse 
behind the furniture shop, and two sensable parlors which catered to those with 
refined, largely illegal tastes. CalleyTronics was located there as well, and 
Players from over a hundred kilometers around came in person to buy from Calley, 
who had been, as a young man in the wistfully remembered days before DataWatch, 
a rather famous Player himself.
The BloodSilk Boys were mixed among the crowds at the west end of the Plaza. 
Four gendarmescops, New York City Police officerswere sitting in full goldtone 
riot armor at Googies Place on the eastern edge of Eight, watching the Plaza 
through the coffee shops glassite walls. Trent did not so much as glance at 
either group as he walked away from the diminishing sound of the swearing French 
women and went to see Bones.
On the crowded floor of Down Plaza, well back from the jumper zone, eight floors 
beneath the surface of Brooklyn, the old black man who was considered by many 
the worlds greatest contortionist gathered up the hard Chinese and SpaceFarer 
CU in the basket before his platform and prepared to take a break from his 
routine.
Trent came to a stop just off the walkway, beside the low platform on which 
Bones worked. Pulling on his shirt, Bones had to raise his voice to be heard 
above the loud music and the babble of the crowd.
Evening, Trent. Take dinner with me?
Hi, Bones. Not tonight.
Something goin, Trent?
Trent did not even turn his head as Bones spoke to him. What do you mean?
 Bout an hour ago I seen Jimmy Ramirez; and Tammy the Rat been hanging around, 
and not fifteen minutes ago I seen your midget. And there was six Peaceforcers, 
they was here when I got here this morning. I aint seen the Left Hand of the 
Devil in the Plaza that early in, oh, five years.
Trent heard barely audible popping noises as Bones joints slowly realigned 
themselves. Still he did not look at the old man. Six Peaceforcers?
I dont trust that midget, Trent. Peering through the crowds and flickering 
adholos, Bones tried to see what it was that Trent was looking at, but could 
not.
You dont trust who?
That midget working for you.
Which midget?
The pretty one.
Oh, Bird. Birds a doll, Bones.
Hes the right size, Bones agreed.
Hes only fourteen, Bones. He hasnt started growing yet. When were the 
Peaceforcers here?
Bones sighed audibly. You got something going today, dont you? You ever going 
to get a job, Trent?
Bones.
What?
Dont start on me today. Im not in the mood for it.
Just wonderin. You so good with the InfoNet, I knows you could get work.
Bones, this is starting to look like a very bad day. I dont want to hear about 
it. At the other end of the plaza, some seventy-five meters distant, Trent 
caught sight of Tammy, a too-skinny girl with platinum-white hair, deep in 
conversation with a tall black man wearing BloodSilk colors, waving her arms as 
she spoke.
Why aint you going to get a job?
I already have one and I dont need two. What time were the Peaceforcers here, 
Bones?
Very near Trent, clustered around a small bench just the other side of the 
walkway, three teenage girls were having a loud argument about where they would 
eat dinner. Two of them were facing Trent and Bones; the third stood facing her 
companions, and Trent could see only her back. She wore a tight green leather 
dress which came down to midthigh, black ankle boots, and pale green silk 
stockings. Her hair was jet black, straight and very long.
Everybody gots to work, Trent. Everybody needs something to make it worth 
gettin up in the morning. The old contortionist chewed on the thought for a 
bit. Thats the fact. Sides, he said suddenly, you keep up boosting, 
eventually the Peaceforcers going to catch you.
The girl in the green dress, immediately in front of Trent, stood clutching a 
handbag by its closed top. She had an exquisite bottom. A glowing scarlet zipper 
began at the dresss hem, just over her right thigh, and spiraled up around her 
buttocks, waist, and breasts; taking her out of it would be like peeling the 
skin off an orange. What time, Bones?
Bones sighed. Seven-thirty, I guess. I was having breakfast upstairs on the 
second floor, at the cantina. I dont know the names of any of them, but I seen 
them in the crowds before sometimes when I performs. Theyre assigned regular to 
this stretch, us being so close to the Fringe and all. Cheap bastards, he added 
thoughtfully. Dont never throw nothing into the kitty when Im done.
They recognize you?
Bones shrugged. It was a curiously fluid motion; most of the major bones in his 
body had extra joints surgically inserted. Who knows? I was dressed; I dont 
look much the same when all the ceramic joints are locked up and Im wearin 
clothes.
Oh. From across the crowded length of the plaza, Tammy reached up and casually 
scratched her left shoulder.
Bones looked at Trent with a perturbed expression on his seamed black face. Im 
really serious, Trent. Youre still young enough to get out of here.
Out of the Patrol Sectors? Trent grinned at Bones suddenly, a quick flash 
which brought unnaturally still features alive for just a moment. I took six 
years just getting out of the Fringe, Bones. I love the Patrol Sectors.
Thats not what I meant. Geography got nothing to do with gettin out of here. 
Bones pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and buttoned it up as he spoke. I gots me 
a whole lot of contacts; been tying myself up in knots here in the Plaza for a 
long time, and I met a lot of folks. I could probably get you a job with
Seventy-five meters away, Tammy tugged gently at the lobe of her left ear; Trent 
cut Bones off. I have a job, Bones.
The old contortionist snorted. Boosting, he said, with gentle derision.
It was Monday, April the thirtieth, 2069.
Trent said softly, Not exactly. He closed his eyes and went Inside.

Trent said to me once, A theft is an act of communication. So is a blow. Unlike 
words, neither one can be ignored. A properly executed boost consists of three 
elements: what you steal, how you steal it, and from whom you steal.
You cannot catch a thief who knows this and employs the knowledge properly. If 
the thief is a very good thief, you may learn, in time, why he stole what he 
stole.
The Peaceforcer Elite Melissa du Bois as quoted in The Exodus Bible.
I never ever talk like that.
Trent the Uncatchable, in conversation with the historian Corazon de Nostri, 
during the War with the Sleem.

The sunglasses had cost Trent more than the rest of the outfit he was wearing 
put together. The lenses filtered ultraviolet from bright sunlight; in dim 
surroundings they stepped up infrared into the visible spectrum. The arms of the 
glasses, where they crossed his temples, held the contacts for the traceset in 
the handheld InfoNet link in the right-hand pocket of his coat.
The Down Plaza was run by Frazier Enforcement, the firm which ran many of the 
shopping districts located either in the Fringe proper or at its edge; Frazier 
got along acceptably well with the Peaceforcers, and they were experts in the 
unique problems of Fringe-area security.
They also had the very worst software in the entire state of New York. Trents 
Image, a program named Johnny Johnny, said softly, boss, somebodys messed with 
plaza security.
I know, johnny. Standing with his eyes closed behind the concealing lenses, 
Trent merged with his Image, and ceased to be Trent.
Johnny Johnny roused himself into full wakefulness.
He could never remember, between times when Trent was not with him, how it was 
to be truly alive in the InfoNet. Unlike most Image programsunlike Johnny 
Johnnys predecessor, Ralf the Wise and PowerfulJohnny Johnny had never been 
turned off, and only rarely reprogrammed. His memories stretched back over six 
years, all the way to his first nanoseconds of awareness; in those days he had 
been little more than a filter program, a collection of routines to enable Trent 
to sort through the vast crush of irrelevant details in the InfoNet quickly, to 
select communication routes through the millions of Boards which had, at any 
given moment, surplus available logic which Johnny Johnnys master might hijack.
That was Johnny Johnnys function: to act as a front end for Trent, as an 
interface to the InfoNet, as Trents Image to the world.
But the flow was not one way. The relationship between Johnny Johnny and Trent 
was a partnership, a symbiosis.
Trents touch brought Johnny Johnny to life.
Johnny Johnny blasted out into the Crystal Wind of Data.
From a great distance, Trent heard Jimmy Ramirezs voice, talking with Bones. A 
voice rumbled something slow and distant, and Trent relinquished all touch with 
Realtime and fell away into the glowing Crystal Wind.
Johnny Johnny went into the Board which ran Down Plazas security through a line 
of lasercable which was putatively a failsafe backup for tracking of Personal 
Protection Systems inside the Plaza. Though expected to be so in the near 
future, the PPSs were not yet illegal, and therefore could not be banned from 
the Plaza. Still they were potentially so dangerous that any good security 
program had to keep an eye on them.
In fact that particular strand of lasercable did not track PPSs. It was one of 
several third-layer backup systems which Johnny Johnny had corrupted for his own 
use. There was no time to trace through every line of lasercable in the Plaza; 
Johnny Johnny did not seriously consider trying. He loaded Frazier Enforcements 
Security Diagnostics and ran it. The program took forever to run, most of six 
seconds. Johnny Johnny waited patiently, and then swore in surprise when the 
results came back to him.
There was something very strange in the Security Board with him.
Player, web angel, a DataWatch webdancerJohnny Johnny had no time to find out. 
Without an instants hesitation Johnny Johnny copied himself, in approximately 
two thousand nanoseconds, into some eighty functional ghosts, sent them out into 
the InfoNet in all directions, disengaged from the Security Board, and fled.
Trents eyes snapped open. Tammy the Rat was on her way across the length of the 
Plaza, striding angrily toward him through the crowd. Trent was peripherally 
aware of the gendarmes over at Googies, watching Tammy walk across the Plaza. 
Wearing a conservative businesspersons suit, briefcase dangling loosely from 
his left hand, Jimmy Ramirez stood next to Bones; a tall, handsome, ex-semipro 
boxer with muscles on his muscles, slightly taller than Trent, simply watching
Trent with that cool, reserved look he saved for those instances when he was 
genuinely pissed.
Hello, Jimmy.
Hello, my man, said Jimmy Ramirez softly. Youre late again.
People keep saying. I had to stop and talk to a man
About?
and then the baby carriage blew up
Trent never had a chance to finish; Tammy pushed her way through the last few 
meters of crowd, radiating anger so palpably that those who saw her coming got 
out of the way without further encouragement. What the slithy goddam hell is 
going on? Ive been stalling the BloodSilk Boys but
Trent said clearly, Its a drop.
Tammy the Rat was a professional; she froze in midword, turned away from Trent 
almost instantly, and without hurrying merged back into the flow of the crowd 
around them.
Walk away. Trent did not even look in Jimmy Ramirezs direction. Have dinner 
with Bones, talk about Hemingway or something. A man named Jerry Jackson just 
tried to hire me to boost CalleyTronics
But were already boosting Calley!
and, the Peaceforcers have some kind of dancer in the Plazas Security Board. 
Its a drop.
Bones was looking back and forth between them, and Trent said softly to Jimmy, 
Go. One of the gendarmes was pointing out the scene to the others; still Trent 
did not see anyone in the entire Plaza who might reasonably have been a 
Peaceforcer. The girl in the green dress was walking away with her friends, and 
Trent started after her, Jimmy falling in beside him for just a second. Out of 
the corner of his eye Trent saw a pair of the gendarmes coming out onto the 
Plaza floor.
What are you doing! Jimmy demanded, glancing over at the gendarmes watching 
them.
Creating a diversion. Go, damn it. Trent never so much as looked around; he 
was simply aware that Jimmy had faded back into the crowd. He threaded his way 
smoothly through the surging crowds on Eights walkways, gaining on the three 
girls; the girl in the green leather dress still held her purse by its clasped 
top. An adholo flared and he swerved slightly to pass through it; under the 
cover of scarlet laser light he pulled the emblade from its waterproof hiding 
place behind his belt buckle and turned it on. The emblade was only three 
molecules wide at its edge; it would cut through ferrocrete as though it were 
paper, and with some muscle behind it would cut even sheet monocrystal. It was 
completely safe; the blade itself dissolved instantly into a fine dust at the 
first touch of liquidsay, blood.
The cops were only thirty meters or so away; Trent increased his pace slightly, 
came alongside the three girls and did the entire thing in one movement, with 
the ease of long years of practice: jostled the girl roughly enough to make sure 
the gendarmes saw it, muttered a brief apology and smiled at the girl in what 
might be taken for slight embarrassment, flicked the emblade up to touch the 
side of the purse, cut, reached through the open flap and with two fingers 
pulled the wallet free, switched the emblade off, dropped the haft to the ground 
and gave it a good kick and was turning away with the stolen wallet, the 
exercise done flawlessly, back toward the gendarmes, when a delicate feminine 
hand closed around his forearm with absolutely amazing strength.
The girl said softly, in a voice pitched to go no further than Trents ears, 
Id like my wallet returned.
Trent turned back to her and for the first time actually looked at the girls 
face. The crowd was clearing away around them, leaving a small open space with 
Trent and the girl at the center. She was fifteen or so, with clean simple 
features framed by long, straight black hair, with green eyes that were even 
brighter than the dyed leather dress she wore. Trent said, Sure, and gave the 
wallet back. The girl looked at him curiously, head tilted slightly to one side, 
a puzzled look taking hold upon her features.
Trent said softly, How did you know I took it?
A deep baritone voice ten meters behind Trent, off to his left, said Maam, 
stand away, please.
Really, said Trent. I did that perfectly.
The baritone voice boomed, Stand away!
The girl had not answered Trent. Trent said, as the seconds ticked by, If 
youre not going to answer me, youd better do what he says. Hell stun you too 
if you dont, and its not pleasant. Believe me.
The girl nodded slowly, and took a single step backward, wallet in her hand. Her 
eyes never left Trent, and the puzzled look did not waver.
Her eyes.
Oh, said Trent. The girl took another step backward, and another.
Bright green eyes, like Carl Castanaveras, or Jany McConnells 
Emerald eyes.
Trent said, Denice?
Her eyes widened in shock.
The cops shot him.




3-
 ^  
I dont understand, she said to Trent, that February day in 2062, why you work 
so hard at it.
The three of them were lying in the grass in the center of the park across the 
street from the Chandler Complex: the dark-haired green-eyed twins, and one 
blond boy with pale blue eyes. David lay beneath one of the trees, hiding from 
the hazy noontime sun with a book; Denice and Trent were beneath the tree right 
next to Davids, dancing in the InfoNet.
Because Im a Player, Trent replied.
Denice Castanaveras sighed in frustration. It frustrated her to know that most 
of the telepaths in the Complex could have touched Trents thoughts easily, to 
know that two years from now, when the Change came for her, she would be able to 
do the same; and that now, today, she was limited, by the clumsiness of words, 
in her attempt to understand something that was very important to the closest 
friend she had in the world.
Not a webdancer, Denice, a Player.
She peered down at the portaterm Trent worked on. Seven years later, after the 
perfection of tracesets which required neither hypnosis nor biofeedback nor 
drugs for normal users to operate, the device would be a quarter the size, lack 
a keyboard, incorporate the functions of infocards, and be called a handheldbut 
the primary function was the same, a device to interface humans with the 
Information Network.
Jacked into the MPU slot at the side of the portaterm was an optical computer 
about the size of a makeup key; the coprocessor which held Trents Image, Ralf 
the Wise and Powerful. Life can be described, said Ralf in a completely human 
voice, and described surprisingly well, in terms of the growth of information 
content. Correct me if Im wrong, Boss, but thats what the Players Litany 
means: from the Crystal Wind came data, and from data came life.
Trent nodded. Thats why I want an inskin.
Whats why?
 to expand your sensory bandwidth by an order of magnitude, to do the things an 
AI could do, control inanimate equipment with a thought, find answers to any 
question to which there was an answer in mere instants 
Trent said, It makes things faster.
So whats the point? she asked. So you can find data faster than anybody else 
in the world except an AI or another Player. Really, I just dont get it.
Trent turned his head slightly, found the serious green eyes looking directly 
into his own from five centimeters away. Waiting.
The Crystal Wind is the greatest source of data the world has ever seen. Truth 
and data, he said quietly, are not the same thing. Data lies in the Crystal 
Wind; Truth is a function of Realtime. And yet Truth arises from data. From data 
you canextractTruth.
With a grave countenance, the nine-year-old girl studied him for just a moment 
longer.
Trent stared back.
Finally the corners of her mouth twitched, and she fought it, then gave up and 
broke up giggling. She leaned back against the bole of the tree they were under, 
rested her head on Trents shoulder. Finally the giggles stopped, and she said 
in a quiet, detached voice, Honestly, youre the craziest thing I ever saw.
Really?
Its okay, she had said, very quickly. I like you anyhow.

The gendarmes took the sunglasses containing his traceset contacts. They took 
the handheld InfoNet link which contained the traceset itself. They took his 
watch and the ruby stud from his left ear, his belt and his wallet and his shoes 
as well. They did not remove his socks and even though they ran a slowscan over 
him the slowscan started just above his ankles.
They missed the magpick taped to the sole of his right foot. Lying on his back, 
Trent stared up at the ceiling of the holding cell. The glowpaint was old, and 
cracked; he suspected it had originally been intended to glow the color of 
sunlight. Now it was closer to orange than yellow. In one corner of the cell the 
webbed cracks in the paint had actually cut off a ragged, meter-wide section of 
the paint from the current; that section of the paint was dead gray, the color 
of mushrooms in shade.
His hands were tingling; he tried moving them again. Better this timehe 
actually got his fingers to curl up to touch his palms. There are drugs which 
will buffer the human nervous system from the effects of sonics, and others 
which will aid in recovering more quickly.
Trent had not expected to get shot with sonic stunners tonight. He lay and 
waited for control of his body to return.
What the hell, he wondered, happened tonight?
He had plenty of time to think about it. He had been in custody for four hours 
when they came to get him, one in goldtone riot armor and one in plainclothes.
Trent was barely able to walk.
He did not ask where they were taking him. Their path led them through the front 
waiting area and its associated babble, too many people in too small a space 
speaking in voices that were too loud.
Denice Castanaveras was seated in one of the glassite-walled cubicles. An angry, 
red-faced lady detective was saying something to her. The combination of 
soundproofing and outside noise was unbeatable; Trent could not even guess at 
what the lady gendarme was saying. Denice sat in a straight-backed chair, sat 
upright with such rigid self-control that her shoulders did not touch the back 
of the chair.
Trent looked toward her as the gendarmes led him into Mac Devlins office. Her 
parents had been telepaths; amazingly, frighteningly powerful telepaths.
The girl did not so much as glance at him.
Seated in a chair just outside of Mac Devlins office, glaring at Trent, was a 
stiff-faced man in a black and silver uniform.
Trent categorized the man immediately, with a cold chill.
PKF Elite.
Cyborg.
They would have taken him while he was still young; not past thirty-five. Taken 
him to Spacebase One at L-5, Peaceforcer Heaven where the Peaceforcers Elite 
were created. Surgery that was impossible under the crushing 980 centimeters per 
second squared acceleration of Earth was just barely feasible when performed in 
the free fall of L-5. Peaceforcer genegineers and surgeons had taken him and 
changed him; injected him with transform viruses designed to strengthen his 
muscles, to speed his neural reactions by better than forty percent. Changed by 
the transform viruses, doubly changed by surgery and cyborging; his eyes were 
not real, nor his skin. He would see in infrared and ultraviolet as easily as a 
normal human distinguished between blue and green. Beneath his right shoulder 
blade was a power source good for six months. A secondary nerve network laced 
itself through the first, fused itself to that which a human was born with; the 
network and all of the Elite hardware it controlled was controlled in turn by a 
combat computer implanted at the base of his skull. Carbon-ceramic filaments 
wound themselves through and around his muscles, joints, and ligaments, 
reinforcing the bones; this, the direct work of the transform viruses, enabled 
the Elite to withstand acceleration that would have quickly killed any normal 
human. Threads of room-temperature superconductor were woven into his skin; he 
would barely notice most lasers. His skin would turn a knife, and his hair would 
not burn.
There was an inskin at the Peaceforcers left temple.
Trent stood motionless under the weight of the Peaceforcer Elites frozen glare.
Come on, said one of the gendarmes contemptuously, and shoved Trent forward 
into Mac Devlins office.

I like to dance, Trent tried to explain to the man.
Police Chief Maxwell Devlin was responsible for overseeing the precincts which 
policed much of the Fringe and a considerable fraction of the Peaceforcer Patrol 
Sectors.
Devlins office was an odd mixture of gray leather and chrome. There was a huge 
sheet of opaqued glassite immediately behind Trent; cleared, it would look out 
on the waiting area. A single painting, done fashionably in electrolytes, hung 
immediately to Mac Devlins left: a glowing violet Easter egg in the midst of a 
scarlet desert, sitting exactly on the divider line of a laser-straight two-lane 
highway.
The sunpaint was turned off. A small bright reading lamp sat at Devlins right 
elbow, providing the only illumination in Devlins office; it seemed to Trent 
that he and Devlin hung suspended in dimness, two images at the edges of the 
light.
Aside from Devlins desk, the chair he sat in, and the chair Trent was seated 
in, there were only two pieces of furniture in the room: a coat rack with two 
identical overcoats hung on it, and a small credenza immediately behind and to 
the right of Mac Devlin. The credenza had a miniature antique cannon on it.
The cannon pointed directly at Trent.
Devlin said, What were your people doing down on Eight tonight?
Devlin could not possibly have expected an honest answer from Trent.
Trent said, We were going to boost CalleyTronics and then go dancing and drink 
coffee over at The Emerald Illusion, in the basement of the Red Line Hotel. His 
left hand was snaked to the chair he sat in. Actually, Jimmy was probably going 
to get drunk and fight somebody, but then he would have drunk coffee with us. 
Trents right hand was still twitching, but he could sit upright without help 
and so far had not spilled any of the coffee he was drinking with his free hand. 
Jimmys been reading Hemingway again. I dont know what to do about it.
Mac Devlin was middle-aged, which, with modern geriatrics, might have meant 
anywhere from forty to seventy. His brown hair was streaked with dusty silver 
and his features were comfortably wrinkled. He was a big man, two hundred and 
five centimeters; a hundred and ten kilos of solid muscle, no fat at all.
His complexion was tinged with the faintest trace of pallor, a suggestion of 
gray.
Devlin gazed at Trent. Youre either a lot smarter than I ever thought, he 
said at last, or Ive been giving you way too much credit, these last couple of 
years. I dont know which. With the windows darkened Trent could not see the 
Peaceforcer sitting out in Devlins waiting room, but Trent had no doubt he had 
not left. Devlin continued. I either have to give you to the Peaceforcers or 
charge you with a crime. No matter what your papers say youre not nineteen yet; 
if youre convicted of emblade possession youll end up in Public Labor for 
sure. On the other hand, he said without any change of expression at all, that 
might be better than giving you to the Peaceforcers.
Trent sat quietly and said nothing. He did not bother pointing out that hed 
written tracking software for the department on occasion, or that hed paid his 
dues, promptly and regularly; Devlin knew it, and in the current circumstances 
both items were utterly unimportant.
Trent could think of only one thing that was not utterly unimportant.
The antagonism between the largely French United Nations Peace Keeping Forcethe 
Left Hand of the Deviland the city police across Occupied America, was old, 
deeply ingrained, and very powerful. Even in New York City, even on Manhattan 
Island itself, where the United Nations had established its Capitol City, there 
was little love lost between the Peaceforcers and the police. Police had been 
known to look the other way for members of the Erisian Claw, and though Trent 
had never heard of any gendarme being involved with that group of religious 
ideologs, there were indeed police who had gone in front of Peaceforcer firing 
squads for Johnny Reb activities.
Devlin said abruptly, Why were you going to boost Calleys place?
Trent simply looked at the man for a moment, and then said, I was getting 
paid.
Devlin actually smiled. Excuse me, that was a stupid question, wasnt it? His 
fingers drummed restlessly on the desktop. Youre a problem for me, Trent. With 
this He glanced down at the field glowing in midair two centimeters above the 
surface of his desk. Denice Daimaras testimony, I could, Im fairly sure, put 
you into Public Labor. My options are limited. Devlin sipped at a glass of iced 
tea. Its either charge you with emblade possession or give you to the frogs. 
Im reluctant to do the latter for two reasons. First, I dont think you deserve 
to be handed over to the Peaceforcers, and second, for the bleeding life of me I 
cant figure out why the United Nations Peace Keeping Force is interested in 
setting up a small-time contract thief like yourself. Mac Devlin leaned forward 
and fixed bright, lively, interested eyes upon Trent. What happened tonight, 
Trent?
I honestly dont know.
Devlin nodded very slightly, hanging on Trents every word. Yes, go on. Use as 
many words as you like. Whole sentences at once, even.
Trent thought about it for a moment, and then said, You see, I wanted to go 
dancing
So you said, Devlin agreed.
Except Jimmy Ramirez thinks Im lazy. Trent thought about it some more. And 
he may be right. Hes the one who made me promise from now on we wouldnt keep 
having parties all the time unless we had a reason for the party. So then we had 
to agree what constituted a reason, and Jimmy wouldnt accept anything except a 
boost. Like I said, too much Hemingway; it makes him crazy with ambition, the 
desire to prove he has true grit. This all happened, oh, two years ago, when we 
were all still living out in the Fringe.
You could have stayed there, you know.
Too dangerous, said Trent flatly. Theres criminals and crazies in the 
Fringe, you know.
And Peaceforcers in the Patrol Sectors. Yes, said Devlin after a pause, 
staying in the Fringe might not have been a bad idea at all. Captain Kleins 
officers are demoralized to begin with; theyd pretty much gotten used to you. 
You know, Captain de Morians been after me to have your Resident Status for the 
Patrol Sectors revoked.
In the last six months, said Trent evenly, violent crime along Flushing has 
declined fourteen percent. A juice peddler on Ryerson closed up shop because of 
us. The BloodSilk Boys havent killed anybody in almost three months, not even a 
Dragon. The Syndic likes us, the Tong likes us, and the Old Ones dont work in 
our neighborhood. You want to revoke my Resident Status? Devlin stared at Trent 
as Trent leaned forward until the snake at his wrist stopped him. I dare you.
Devlin rubbed his temples wearily. I know, I know all of it. Youre the 
strangest criminal Ive ever met, Trent. Finish up about tonight.
Trent felt the first distant flicker of anger, suppressed it almost without 
allowing himself to become aware of it. We spent six years in the Fringe, Mac, 
me and Bird and Jimmy and Jodi Jodi. Were not going back, not any of us, not 
ever. What are the statistics, Mac? Residents of the Fringe are nine times as 
likely to be murdered as residents of the Patrol Sectors, something like that? 
You go into the Fringe in your Armored AeroSmiths and you think you know what 
its like to grow up there, without parents, without protectors?
Devlin said placatingly, with an obvious touch of surprise, I understand.
I doubt that very much. For Gods sake, Mac, youre from Harvard! Trent 
realized with distant surprise how tense the muscles in his shoulders had 
become. Mac, have you ever had a Player out to get you?
Once, said Devlin quietly, eleven years ago. We had to go to the Peaceforcers 
for help; DataWatch finally took him down. It was close, though.
Ill protect myself, Mac. Ill protect my people.
I hear you. Finish up about tonight.
Anger, thought Trent clearly, is counterproductive. He took a deep breath and 
ordered his thoughts. About a month ago, a man tried to hire me to boost 
fifteen terabytes of RTS from CalleyTronics. I turned him down for all the 
obvious reasons. He came back a week later and just about tripled his offer; 
said Frank Calley had stolen the RTS from him in the first place, and that he 
wanted his superconductor RAM back. Trent looked down into his coffee, 
remembering. He was convincing. I checked him out as well as I was able Trent 
looked up again. I am possibly the best Player youll ever meet, Mac. The man 
who hired me to boost Calley was either exactly what he said he wasor DataWatch 
constructed his background. He had all the right records for a businessman from 
AtlantaInfoNet ID, birth record, business license, vehicle license, three bank 
accounts; even a passport showing one trip to Luna in 64. I audited the Atlanta 
news Boards for past mention of this person and found four instances.
Did you go to Atlanta, to check on him?
Ive never even been on a plane, Mac.
Devlin nodded. You should have gone. Id have done it in your shoes. Then 
what?
I told him wed do it, Trent said simply. Jimmy and I worked up a real good 
variation on the bookends routine; Calley would never even have known hed been 
hit if it had worked right. We hired the BloodSilk Boys for the diversion, and 
Jimmy was dressed up to play the bookkeeper. We were going to hit at 6:30, about 
half an hour before CalleyTronics closes for the night. Just before 5:00,I got a 
call from a man who called himselfnever mind what. He said he was a businessman 
from Atlanta, needed to talk to me urgently about Frank Calley.
Go on.
Trent looked directly at Maxwell Devlin. This person says to me almost word for 
word what my original client said to me, about the RTS, about Frank Calley, 
about how he was referred to me. It was too weird. I headed over to the Plaza, 
found something fairly odd, Im still not sure what, sitting up inside the 
security Board, and went word up on the boost. Trent thought for a moment. The 
boost was going bad anyway at that point, I think. The BloodSilk Boys were 
getting nervous because I was late, and your boys were watching them pretty 
close.
Devlin grinned widely. So you decided to let yourself get rescued from the 
Peaceforcers by the police?
Trent glanced at the snakechain on his wrist. If you want to put it that way.
Youve got balls, Trent.
No, I was desperate. Trent sipped at his coffee to see how cold it had gotten; 
it was still lukewarm, and he gulped the rest of it down all at once. Theres a 
difference.
I know. I dont suppose youve eaten?
Trent said clearly, distinctly, I beg your pardon?
The Chief of Police for the City of New York said, Would you like to go get 
dinner? I know a pretty good place near here thats open all night.
Thinking of Denice Castanaveras, sitting in the room outside with the 
Peaceforcers, Trent said finally, Id love to. Thank you.
Devlin nodded. Command, chain off. The snake at Trents wrist loosened and 
coiled itself around the arm of the chair. Have you ever been to LExpress?
Devlin looked startled when Trent laughed.
Trent said, Once.
Command, Devlin said, outspeaker. The intercom came on with an almost 
inaudible click. Janice, tell Elite Sergeant Garon to go home. Were going to 
charge the boy ourselves.
Trents right hand, rubbing his left wrist, froze in the action.
Elite Sergeant Garon.
Devlin was taking his coat from the coatrack beside his door.
Elite Sergeant Emile Garon.
For the first time Trent knew what was going on.
Seven years ago, Elite Sergeant Emile Garon had been DataWatch Staff Sergeant 
Emile Garon, one of a group of webdancers in DataWatch who were assigned the 
task of monitoring the communications of the telepaths in lower Manhattan.
In the early months of 2062, before the destruction of the telepaths, Trent, 
acting through his first Image, Ralf the Wise and Powerful, had helped protect 
the telepaths from DataWatch.
Trent sat utterly still, unseeing. All of his dealings with DataWatch Sergeant 
Emile Garon had been through the person of his first image, Ralf the Wise and 
Powerful; he had never known what the man looked like.
Emile Garon was a tall, thin Peaceforcer with black hair and a glare that could 
stop a man in his tracks.
After seven years of safety, the Peaceforcers were finally on his trail again.
Thinking again of Denice Castanaveras, the girl with whom he had been raised, 
whom he had also not seen in seven years, Trent said very quietly, What 
amazingly horrible timing.
Shrugging into his coat, Devlin glanced at him. Timing? Youre not hungry?
Trent said, Not any more.

Trent had never sat in the front of a police car before.
The car had a steering wheel; ambulances and fire trucks, police and Peaceforcer 
and babychaser cars were the only vehicles Trent had seen in the last five years 
that did. Even in those, the steering wheels functioned only under emergency 
conditions. Manually operable vehicles were outlawed inside TransCons 
ever-growing Automated Traffic Control Regions, and had been since the 
Speedfreak revolution in the summer of 2063, almost six years ago.
Devlin never touched the steering wheel; the hovercars instrument panel lit up 
when his palm touched the locklarm. Devlin turned on the impact field himself 
and said, Command, destination LExpress Restaurant.
They were six levels beneath the ground, and nearly four kilometers from the 
restaurant.
In the twenty minutes it took them to go that distance, Mac Devlin said only one 
thing to Trent.
I really want to know, he said as they were leaving the parking garage, moving 
out into the drumming of the nighttime rain, why an Elite Sergeant of the PKF 
is camped out in my office over you.
Neither he nor Trent noticed the car which followed them up out of the garage.

The manager was the same one who had been at LExpress some six hours before.
For just a moment, as Mac Devlin and Trent were ushered in for dinner at five 
minutes before midnight, the woman looked positively distressed. The expression 
vanished in the next instant, and with professional restraint she personally 
showed the police chief and Trent to a private room in the rear of the 
restaurant. It was a shadowed place of leather-lined booths, burnished wood, and 
crisp table linen. The glowpaint was dim, supplemented by the soft shine of 
gentle white spots.
Trent heard Devlins earphone beep as they were being seated. Murmuring, Excuse 
me, Devlin touched a point immediately beneath his ear. His expression 
immediately took on a distant cast, and he nodded once. Suddenly his eyes 
snapped back into focus, staring directly at Trent. He said aloud, Exactly 
when? There was more silence; Devlins gaze, fixed upon Trent, did not waver 
even slightly.
A live human waiter appeared at their table, glanced at Devlin briefly and then 
murmured to Trent, Drinks, sir?
Coffee for me, iced tea with lemon for Chief Devlin.
Will you be having dinner?
Trent suddenly realized that hed had nothing to eat in over twelve hours. I 
will. Do you have scallops here?
Yes, monsieur.
Butter-fried scallops withdo you have french fries here?
Yes, monsieur.
With french fries. Make the french fries well done.
The waiter nodded, gestured to Devlin. And the Chief?
I dont know if hes hungry. Can you leave a menu?
The waiter nodded again; a menu holo appeared hanging in midair fifteen 
centimeters from Devlins left elbow. The waiter left.
Devlin said aloud, Acknowledged, and removed his finger from the earphone 
stud. How, he said with the perfect evenness of real anger, did you do that?
Do what?
Not five minutes after I tell the Peaceforcers were charging you, our witness 
changes her mind and decides shes not going to testify against you. She didnt 
see you with the em-blade, shes not sure youre the one who cut her purse, 
shes not testifying. No way, no how. The anger glittered in Devlins eyes. 
How did you get to her?
How could I have?
Devlin leaned back in his seat, taking long, slow breaths.
Honestly, how could I have gotten to her? Maybe Jimmy did, I dont know.
Devlin scowled at Trent. How could you have?
Thats what I said, Trent agreed.
Devlin said abruptly, Do you know what they call you in Department Five?
Department Five was the citys equivalent of the Peaceforcers DataWatch. No.
 The damned magician. 
Trent grinned swiftly, in honest, utter delight. Do they really?
Yes. Devlins brow smoothed, slowly. Very slowly. Nonetheless, he conceded 
at last, I dont actually see how you could have gotten to the girl. A waitbot 
appeared at the table side, bearing one cup of coffee, a glass of iced tea, and 
Trents scallops and french fries.
As their drinks were being served, Devlin placed his spoon upside down, parallel 
to his fork. Trent froze for just an instant.
The Chief of Police for the City of New York was a Johnny Reb.
He recognized the opening, and knew the correct Johnny Reb response, butwhat 
chapter was he a member of? Who was his sponsor? Trent gave no visible response 
to the sign, and Devlin sighed very slightly and picked up the fork to squeeze 
his lemon against.
Have you ever considered becoming a cop?
Youve got to be kidding.
Yeah. Actually. After a moment Devlin said, I think youd be good at it.
Id be good at a lot of things I dont want to do. Id be a great accountant. 
Trent speared three of the eight scallops on his plate with his fork, ate them 
all at once. Cooking books isnt my idea of fun. Neither, he said carefully, 
swallowing, is playing third string to the Left Hand of the Devil.
For a moment Trent thought he had said the wrong thing; Devlin simply stared at 
Trent for a long moment before saying finally, very quietly indeed, No  no, I 
dont suppose it would be.
Trent looked down at the tabletop, at the scallops and fries. Mac, I dont hate 
the Peaceforcers. I dont hate the Ministry of Population Control. I dont hate 
the United Nations and I dont hate Secretary General Eddore. At the expression 
on Devlins face, Trent said, I dont like them either. Butwe cant afford 
another war, Mac, so we need either the Peace Keeping Force or something like 
it. We cant afford to support ten billion people on this planet, so we need the 
Ministry of Population Control or something like it. And we cant trust 
individual countries to behave responsiblyso we need the United Nations, or 
something very like it, to administer those things.
Devlin studied Trent. I think, he said after a moment, that is the longest 
meaningful speech Ive ever heard out of you.
I mean it, Mac. Do you think we can do without a Peace Keeping Force? Trent 
ate two more scallops, quickly.
No. Devlin did not hesitate at all. But that doesnt mean it has to be the 
PKF we have now.
And do you think we can get rid of the current PKF without violence?
The Tree of Liberty, said Mac Devlin simply, must from time to time be 
refreshed with the blood of patriots. Jefferson said that.
Mac?
Yes, Trent?
Trent said, Killing is wrong. He ate the remaining three scallops, and the 
largest number of french fries he could get into his mouthpolitelyat once.
Yeah, said Mac Devlin, tell it to the Peaceforcers. His eyes widened 
slightly at something over Trents shoulder. Trent ate french fries quickly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Trent saw a girl in a green dress with a single 
long, glowing, spiral scarlet zipper being led to a table not far from the one 
he and Devlin were seated at. Devlins eyes followed her every step of the way, 
watched Denice Castanaveras as the hostess seated her. Trent devoured more of 
his french fries. The girl requested a glass of water in a high, clear voice, 
and once the hostess had left turned slightly and smiled directly at Maxwell 
Devlin.
It was fascinating to watch. Devlins eyes lost all focus, and then his gaze 
wandered back to Trent. He came back to himself with a small shake. What were 
we talking about?
Trent drank the last of his coffee. I was telling you, said Trent, that I had 
to leave.
Oh. Devlin blinked. He looked at Trents empty plate.
My people are going to be wondering whats happened to me, Mac.
Youre done eating, Devlin observed.
You never know, said Trent, when you might have to move fast.
Devlin nodded wearily. Trent stood, and the older man said simply, This has 
been a very odd day. Department Five might be right about you.
Trent stood watching the man for just a moment. Mac?
Yes, Trent?
Jerry Jackson? The name mean anything to you?
Not a thing, Trent.
I keep wondering, said Trent softly, who out there might go to such lengths 
to warn a small-time contract thief like myself that the Peaceforcers were after 
him.
I couldnt imagine, myself.
Thanks, Mac.
Dinner, said Devlin, wasnt that expensive.
Mac Devlin watched Trent walk away. He did not even see the girl in the green 
dress who followed Trent to the exit. Once Trent was out of his sight he touched 
his handheld to the payment strip at the side of the table. The payment strip 
went from red to blue; Devlin said aloud, Tip, one CU, twenty-five points, and 
the strip went green.
He sat motionlessly at the table, and finally beckoned to a passing waitbot.  
Bot, is there a phone in you?
Yes, monsieur.
The number came out of nowhere, simply appeared in Devlins mind; except when he 
needed it he could never remember it. Access 108080-CATR.
The wavering flat silver phonefield, approximately twenty centimeters 
diagonally, appeared in the air before Devlin.
The call was answered immediately; Mac Devlin could not recall a time when it 
had not been.
The silver surface of the phonefield shimmered, then sank in to provide depth; 
the head and shoulders of a dark-haired man of indeterminate age appeared within 
those depths.
Camber Tremodian said softly, Yes?
The man had eyes as black as a Peaceforcers heart, flat black with no whites in 
them, no internal structure at all. Devlin had, now, spent almost fifteen years 
in M. Tremodians employ, and he knew very little more about the man today than 
he had known the day he began that service.
Try as he might, Devlin could not recall having ever actually agreed to work for 
M. Tremodian; he had simply found himself doing so.
I attempted to interest Trent in the Johnny Rebs, M. Tremodian. I failed.
Tremodian smiled easily. I said you would, my friend.
From his description of tonights events, it sounds like somebody tried to tip 
Trent off in a reasonably unobtrusive way. He thinks it was me.
Was it?
No, sir. Id have warned him if Id known the Peaceforcers were after him; I 
did not.
M. Tremodian nodded. Did he leave the restaurant alone?
Alone? I  yes, said Devlin after a long moment. Yes, of course he did.
The smile came again, ever so slightly wider than before. Of course he did, 
agreed Camber Tremodian. You may contact me again, Tremodian continued, if 
anything of note happens between now and August eighth of this year.
Anything of note, sir?
Tremodian shrugged. I leave it to your judgment, Maxwell. But He was silent 
for a long moment, no expression at all in the blind dark eyes. Deviation in 
this year is less than two percent. Leave Trent alone, Devlin; I wouldnt dare 
touch him myself, and neither, I think, would the competitionand we know what 
were doing, which is more than anyone else within a hundred years of here could 
say. As for The smile came once more. A young lady will be joining Trent 
shortly. A Denice Daimara. Keep an eye on her, if you would.
Devlin said simply, I will, sir.
Maxwell? From a distance.
Sir?
Youre of no use to me, Maxwell, if you cant remember what youve seen.
Mac Devlin had no idea at all what the man meant. Yes, M. Tremodian.
Very good. Good night, Maxwell.
Good night, sir.
The holofield went flat and then silvered, vanished, and left Devlin sitting 
alone in the nearly empty restaurant.
He had difficulty, at times, refraining from dwelling on his peculiar employer. 
Fifteen years; he could count the things he actually knew about Camber Tremodian 
on the fingers of one hand.
Out of all those fifteen years, there was one comment in particular that stayed 
with him, a response M. Tremodian had made to a hesitant inquiry about his eyes.
I would be surprised, my friendand very worriedhad you ever seen anyone else 
with eyes like mine. The first human with Kabhyr eyes wont be born for another 
three hundred eighty years. And then Camber Tremodian had smiled at Mac Devlin, 
and better than a decade later the memory of that terrible smile disquieted Mac 
Devlin sufficiently that he had no inclination at all to attempt to question 
Camber Tremodian in such a fashion ever again.




4-
 ^  
Denice Daimara? said Trent.
They walked home together, eleven blocks in the rain through nearly empty 
nighttime streets.
A friend I had when I was in Public Labor, Carrie Daimara. The Ministry of 
Population Control sterilized her when she was thirteen. She died during the 
operation.
Denice Castanaveras walked with her arms folded against the cold; aside from 
that she did not even seem to notice the rain. She kept looking at Trents wet 
features, shiny beneath the street lamps, and then looking away as though she 
could not entirely believe her eyes. I couldnt very well go by the name 
Castanaveras. Green eyes alone are bad enough; Ive almost had them dyed any 
number of times. Sometimes I wear contacts.
Trent nodded. The publics hysteria over the green-eyed telepaths had carried 
over; there was a degree of prejudice that green-eyed people ran into today that 
had not existed at all ten years ago. Is David alive?
Denice shook her head. I dont know. We were separated during the riots. I was 
nine; I ended up in Public Labor. She looked at Trent then, met his eyes. 
Nobodys ever really guessed what I am. You know theres rumors some of the 
telepaths survived?
Trent did. Yes. Ive audited the news Boards; Ive seen the tapes of Carl 
taking Andys Lamborghini up through the park before the Complex was nuked.
Theres recordings of that? Ive never seen them.
I have them on file at home. Ill play them for you if you like.
I would. They walked on through the quiet drumming of the rain a while longer 
without speaking. Finally Denice said softly, Trent.
Yes?
I dont know where to start. Its been seven years. She did not look at him at 
all. I dont even know if youre the same person any more.
Neither do I. I spent six years in the Fringe.
Her expression changed visibly, grew visibly more distant. Without moving she 
seemed to pull away from him. Oh. Im sorry, Trent. She hugged herself more 
tightly. Im really sorry.
Trent blinked. Well, it wasnt that bad. At least not after I got into business 
it wasnt. I ended up in Temple Dragon territory; theyre not nearly as bad as 
the Gypsy Macoute. He shrugged. But its true, the Fringe is a brutal, violent 
place. Why, it turned me into a pacifist. I didnt used to be, you know.
Denice glanced quickly sideways at him. You didnt?
When I was thirteen a pack of Temple Dragons recruited me. In the process they 
beat me for about a week. I mean, they took turns. They wanted a Temple Dragons 
webdancerthe Macoute had one of their own. I kept telling them I wasnt a 
webdancer, I wasnt, I wasnt, and right about the point where it was either 
kill me or believe me they decided they believed me. Trent grinned at her. 
Ive been a firm believer in nonviolence ever since.
I bet.
So it changed me, being in the Fringe. Of course it changed me. But Im 
basically still the same person, he said sincerely. I still have too many 
pairs of sunglasses, for example. Really. Do you know what the square root of 
443,556 is?
No.
Damn. Me neither. But then, I didnt know seven years ago either, so there you 
go. They walked on together a few more steps, and Trent said suddenly, And I 
still dont have an inskin. Shouldnt that count for something?
Denice Castanaveras said quietly, Youre trying too hard, Trent.
Oh? The first eleven years of Trents life had been spent among telepaths. He 
remembered them clearly, the things telepaths liked and disliked, and why. All 
right. He paused just a moment, thinking, and then said very simply, Can we 
still hold hands when we walk?
I dont know. She shook her head slowly. I dont think so.
Trent held his hand out to her. Try.
She froze, stood stock-still in the street, in the rain, and then without saying 
anything at all shook her head swiftly no.
Trent said, Please?
Trent  I  I cant. Im sorry, I just cant. He heard the trace of panic in 
her voice and without waiting or asking stepped in close to her, reached up 
without haste and laid the palm of his hand flat against her cheek.
Denice made no move to stop him. Her breath came in quick, short gasps, and then 
her eyelids dropped to cover the brilliant emerald eyes. She had long, dark 
eyelashes; with her eyes closed and features still she looked amazingly like her 
mother.
Trent watched her; he was not even aware that he had stopped breathing. Does it 
hurt? She did not answer him and it seemed to Trent that he could hear his own 
heart pounding even over the sound of the rain. Does it hurt when I touch you?
Her eyes were closed and she was shivering and Trent knew that it was not from 
the cold. Trent had no idea at all what she was experiencing, none.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her left hand let go of her right 
shoulder, crept up to cover Trents hand. Her voice was the barest whisper. 
Its really you. Oh, God, its really you.
Yes.
I guess, she said quietly, you can hold my hand if you want. She opened her 
eyes and looked directly at him. Trent did not know if she was crying or if it 
was merely the rain; her eyes were bright. When she spoke her voice was shaky. 
Oh, Trent. Of course I still love you.

Kandel Microlectrics Sales and Repair was a tiny shop at the corner of Flushing 
and Hall. The neighborhood was less than a kilometer inland from the expensive 
waterfront developments.
It was another world.
The buildings were old and shabby; some of them were over a century old. Only a 
few of them were more than five or six stories tall, and even those few reached 
only twenty or thirty stories. After midnight on a Tuesday there were dozens of 
people, most of them without umbrellas, walking in the rain; it was as empty as 
the streets in that section of town ever got. Trent knew many of the people they 
passed, at least by sight. Twice in the time it took them to reach the shop, 
Peaceforcer AeroSmiths cruised by. Somebody shot at the second AeroSmith after 
the car had passed by Trent and Denice; Trent saw the steam trail where the 
maser cut through the rain, and the sparks as the beam showered off the surface 
of the car. The AeroSmith slowed, and then the Peaceforcers inside apparently 
thought better of it, and continued on their patrol route.
The Temple of Eris which Reverend Andy ran was right next door to Kandel 
Microlectrics; a boy, eight or nine years old, sat under an umbrella on the 
steps that led up to the Temples entrance. The boy wore a raincoat over a blue 
and white sari, jeans and running shoes.
In the six months Trent had been on Hall Street, he could not recall a time, day 
or night, when there had not been somebody at the Temples entrance, greeting 
people as they went by, offering help to those who wanted or needed it. 
Sometimes it was one of the older Temple members, sometimes it was one of the 
children; always there was somebody.
The boy said loudly, Greetings, Sieur Trent, as Trent and Denice approached.
Trent did not know the boys name. Hi there.
Jimmy said you were in jail, the boy continued.
Trent was not surprised that Jimmy knew the boy; Jimmy Ramirez made friends more 
quickly than anybody Trent had ever met. I was framed, he told the boy. I 
explained to them and they let me out.
The boy nodded as though he had never expected anything else. Yes, Sieur 
Trent. Jimmy said you would get out, and so did Reverend Andy. Go with God, he 
added serenely.
Denice Castanaveras stood looking at the boy for just a second. Then she smiled 
at him, and after a surprised moment the boy smiled back. Go with God, she 
said quietly.
The young boys shy smile widened noticeably. Were trying, Selle.
There were ten people waiting for Trent inside the shop; they had pulled the 
chairs away from the sales displays and clustered them into a group in the 
center of the shop and sat there drinking beer and wine. There was a portable 
Slo-Mo set up in the middle of the circle, sucking heat from the liquids as they 
were passed through its field. The only light came from the neon-laser sign that 
flashed the shops name, and the various display holographs showing off 
particular pieces of stock. Old Jack Kandel, who owned the place, sat behind the 
parts counter, keeping an eye on everybody elseJimmy and Bird, Tammy the Rat 
and her midget boyfriend Big Clarence, and five BloodSilk Boys: Master Timothy, 
a small, skinny Latino with an inskin whom Trent had never seen before, and 
three troopers. Master Timothy wore a Personal Protection System; Trent could 
see the vests bulge beneath Master Timothys black and scarlet robes.
With the exception of Old Jack, they were all fairly drunk; Trent and Denice 
stood just beneath the shops neon-laser sign, dripping in the doorway for 
several seconds before being noticed. Finally Bird looked up at them, blinked 
twice as though he were not certain about what he was seeing, and then nudged 
Jimmy.
Now, theres a pair of nice high big ones, said Bird excitedly, pointing at 
Denice.
Suddenly everybody was talking at once, Bird and Tammy, Big Clarence and Master 
Timothy and Old Jack; Trent came further into the shop, peripherally aware that 
Denice was following him warily, a step behind and to his right.
Jimmy Ramirez raised his voice to cut across the babble. Quiet, damn it!
In the almost instant silence that followed, Denice Castanaveras looked directly 
at Bird. The boy flinched slightly at the touch of her eyes.
Denice Castanaveras said, Nice high big ones?
Bird flushed until his face was nearly as red as his hair. Oh. He almost 
stuttered. I didnt, I mean, thats not what I meant. Your cheekbones, he said 
urgently.
For the first time in seven years Trent heard Denice Castanaveras laugh. It was 
a low, husky sound, and for the second time she reminded him of her mother, Jany 
McConnell.
Denice said, Youre scheduled for biosculpting. Theyre going to work on your 
cheekbones.
Bird sighed audibly. Yes. You have gorgeous cheekbones, he told her.
Bro?
Trent looked at Jimmy Ramirez. Jimmy still wore the suit from earlier that 
evening, but had removed the shoulder silks and the tie. He sat cross-legged in 
his chair, sitting carefully upright with the beer bottle in his hands. The only 
time he was ever that careful about his balance was when he was considerably 
drunk. Yes, Jimmy?
Last I saw you were boosting this chicks wallet. Jimmy enunciated clearly. 
Who is she?
Shessomeone I used to know, Trent said finally.
Jimmy Ramirez looked like hed been slapped. Bird looked puzzled; he and Jodi 
Jodi and Jimmy Ramirez had come out of the Fringe with Trent, and of those three 
Jimmy Ramirez had known Trent longer than anybody else; nearly six years.
Jimmy said simply, From before the Troubles?
We had the same parents. In her case the relationship had been one of blood, 
in his it had not; Trent could not see that it mattered much. I guess, he 
said, watching Jimmy closely, in a way that makes her my sister.
Jimmy studied his beer. Master Timothy was looking back and forth between Trent 
and Jimmy. There was a small red light winking on and off on the collar of his 
robe; his PPS had decided there was something threatening in the situation.
Jimmy stood up very slowly. Im going home, bro. See you in the morning.
Hold on a minute. Trent turned to the leader of the BloodSilks. Master Tim? 
Could we make it for the morning? Nine oclock? Ill spring breakfast at the 
Temple. Eggs, bacon, waffles, whatever makes you happy. Orange juice? Do you 
like orange juice?
Master Timothy shrugged loosely, and the Boys with him relaxed very slightly. 
No. But the breakfast, I spose Ill be there. We going to talk a long time on 
this one, Trent. The Boys went to a lot of trouble on your say.
Trent nodded. Ill make it good, Master Tim.
Master Timothy smiled without any humor at all. I know it. Come long, Boys.
After they had gone, Trent said to them all, Tomorrow morning before the 
BloodSilk Boys get there, eight oclock breakfast at the Temple coffee shop. 
Ill tell you what I know as well as I know it. He turned to Old Jack. Sorry 
to keep you up so late, Jack. Anything interesting?
Had a couple of pieces of hardware I couldnt get running today, said Kandel 
softly. If you could take a look at them tomorrow morning, Id appreciate it.
Ill do that.
Jimmy stood very still, clutching his beer. Someday, he said, in a voice so 
old it had no place on the features of a man so young, Im going to figure you 
out, my man.
Not tonight, Jimmy.
Jimmy Ramirez took a step toward them, looking at Denice. Whats your name, 
girl?
Denice.
What do you do?
Im a dancer.
Jimmy nodded slowly, appreciatively. He looked up and down her dripping form. 
Where?
Orinda Gleygavass Dance Troupe, in Greenwich Village.
Ive heard of them.
You should have. Its the most famous dance troupe in the world.
Jimmy brought the half-full bottle up to his lips, drained it in a single long 
pull. Youre his sister?
Denice Castanaveras said simply, Yes.
It did not even occur to Trent to interfere.
Jimmy Ramirez stared at her for a long moment.
Denice looked coolly back at him.
Nice to meet you, said Jimmy at last. Any sister of Trents is okay by me.
Okay? Just okay! Denice Castanaverass lips curved slightly. Watching her 
standing there in the wet green dress, Trent could not remember anyone who had 
ever handled Jimmy so correctly, so soon. Jimmy Ramirez, Im the best.
Trent took her back through the dark shop as Old Jack locked up.
About Jimmy she said, My god, hes jealous. I touched him once Denice 
shivered.
Dont tell him, said Trent simply. It wont make him happy; he thinks hes 
straight. They passed the workbenches, passed the dim shelves piled with 
machinesbots, brains, inskinsthat were sitting in the gloom awaiting repair.
Following Trent, Denice said, I think maybe he is. But he loves you and it 
confuses him.
The stairs were tucked away at the far end of the shop.
The stairwell lights came on automatically as Trent reached the foot of the 
stairs. Denice was right behind him.
There was a big black bear wallowing on its back at the top of the stairs.
There was a blond girl in blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt scratching the bears 
stomach.
Denice froze at the bottom of the stairs.
Halfway up the stairs, Trent looked back at her. Whats wrong?
Thats a bear, said Denice.
Trent looked at the bear, then back at Denice. No kidding. These are my 
friendsthey came out of the Fringe with me and Jimmy Ramirez and Bird. This is 
Jodi Jodi, shes my Images sister. The bear
His name is Boris, said Jodi Jodi. He defected from Russia.
Trent said, She stole him from a Russian circus when it visited Occupied 
America.
Jodi Jodis voice took on a defensive tone. I did not. He was, uhm  unhappy. 
Yeah. He was unhappy at the circus so I helped him defect. To Trent she said, 
Whos she?
My sister. Jodi Jodis eyes widened at the reply; she stopped scratching the 
bear.
Denice looked at the bear. She looked at Trent, and then she looked at Jodi 
Jodi. What do you do with him?
The blond girl smiled at her, somewhat hesitantly. We go dancing.
The bear yawned at Denice. Denice lifted an eyebrow.
Jodi Jodi said, Well, hes a Dancing Bear. What would you do with him?
You go dancing where?
Jodi Jodis smile grew wider. You know that joke? she demanded.
What joke?
The smile vanished suddenly. I thought you knew the joke.
Denice said slowly, I dont know any bear jokes at all.
Where does a two-hundred-kilo dancing bear dance? Jodi Jodi stood up and said, 
Come along, Boris.
Oh, said Denice.
The bear rolled over, came to his feet. Anywhere he wants to, said Jodi Jodi. 
She glanced at Trent. Were leaving.
They left, the bear waddling down the stairs with considerable grace. Denice 
took one step to get out of the bears way as they left. There was something 
that looked very, very much like an inskin socketed in the bears skull.
You have the strangest friends, Denice said.
Trent shrugged wearily. Theyre okay. Lets go upstairs.

Do you live here?
It was her first comment after he had unlocked the door.
Sort of, said Trent.
The lights had come on automatically when they entered the room. The room 
consisted of a twin bed, a small desk with a traceset and InfoNet system, and a 
shabby bathroom with a tiny shower. Denice recognized the system; it was good 
equipment, for an amateur webdancerslightly better than the 
twenty-thousand-Credit equipment Trent had been using seven years ago, but not 
the sort of equipment a Player would have been using.
There was a bazooka in the bathroom.
What is that? Denice pointed at the weapon.
A bazooka.
Is it real?
Trent looked at it. I suppose.
Where did you get it from?
Trent shrugged. It was here when I moved in. Command, he said, lights off.
The claustrophobically small room was plunged into darkness.
A pressure pad, about the size of a human hand, glowed in the darkness, just to 
the right of the InfoNet terminal, high enough up on the wall that it was 
unlikely anybody would ever place a palm on it by accident. You want to be 
careful here; if you touch that spot while the lights are on, a fadeaway bomb 
goes off.
The darkness did not seem to throw her at all. Whats a fadeaway bomb?
A liquid Peaceforcer drug, developed for crowd control. Its proper name is 
Complex 8-A.
Why not sonics?
Sonics wont stop brass balls, said Trent simply. He waited a moment, then 
said, Put your hand on the pressure pad.
He felt her move by him, saw her hand cover the glowing spot. Command, he 
said, authorize Denice.
Johnny Johnnys voice said, Denice is authorized.
An entire section of the wall slid backward half a meter. Bright yellow sunpaint 
flooded down, showing an ascending stairway.
Immediately inside the stairwell there was a squirt gun. Denice looked at it 
without expression.
Trent said, Fadeaway again. You cant use anesthetic needlers on brass balls; 
the slivers wont break the skin. But their skin is permeable, it has to be; a 
squirt gun gets enough on them to put one down for the count.
Denice looked at Trent without expression.
Trent sighed. Lets go upstairs.

Denice stood stock-still in the brilliant sunshine, watching the waves crash on 
the beach. The sun beat down upon her and she could smell the salt of the ocean.
Trents voice came from behind and below her. Youre blocking the stairwell.
She took two steps up, further into the immensity. There was a bright blue 
tropical ocean against the far wall. Even knowing what it must be, a holo of 
astonishing fidelity, the illusion was fiercely real; she felt that she could 
step forward, walk ten meters across the sand, down to the water. There were 
dolphins a kilometer or so out, leaping across the surface of the waves.
Denice could feel the warmth of the sun upon her skin. Its warm.
Its practically real. It even puts out UV B and C; itll give you a tan if you 
stay under it long enough.
Denice turned slowly, pivoting to view the rest of the room. There was a bed in 
one corner, with booksreal plastipaper bookspiled up on a bookshelf next to 
it. There was a desk next to the bookshelf, with computer equipment so esoteric 
that Denice had no idea what most of it was. She recognized one item, a huge 
full-sensory MRI traceset that must have cost forty thousand Credit Units.
The bed was huge, easily large enough for three or four people. There was a 
late-model waitbot on one side of the bed.
On the table at the side of the bed there wereDenice paused, countingeighteen 
pairs of sunglasses arrayed on a stand.
In the very center of the room, just to the left of the stairwell entrance, 
there was a clear still pool of water; four meters across, Denice judged, 
perhaps one deep. Not large enough to swim in, but still larger than any bathtub 
she had ever seen.
One entire wall of the room, curving to join the holo of the ocean, was opaqued 
glassite. It could be cleared to look east, out toward the Fringe; Trent usually 
kept it darkened.
At the other side of the room there was a small kitchen, and just off that a 
bathroom. Denice wandered through Trents home, silently, looking. Trent 
stripped off his wet clothing as he watched her. There were two pale, puckered 
scars high on his shoulder, and several knife scars. He gave the wet clothes to 
the waitbot, ran a towel over himself and changed into a white terry-cloth robe. 
Johnny?
Yes, Boss?
Try Booker, please. Trent sat down on the edge of the bed, still watching her. 
The phonefield formed next to Trent for just a moment, then faded.
No response from Sieur Jamethon, Boss.
Okay.
Finally she turned back to him. Whos Booker Jamethon?
A Player I know. Trent paused. Actually the only Player I know outside of the 
Crystal Wind. I dont know which Player he is, just that hes so good he has to 
be one. Hes pretty high up in the local Syndic operation, too. I used to sign 
onto a Board he runs back when we lived in the Complex together. Bookers taught 
me a lot of what I know about being a Player. He shrugged. Earlier tonight a 
man named Jerry Jackson told me Booker had referred him to me. I think he was 
lying, but I wanted to check.
Denice nodded, accepting it. She gestured at the apartment. How did you do 
this?
I stole most of it.
You stole it?
Im a thief. Its what I do. Steal things. I bought the rest with Credit I made 
from things I stole.
Is that why you were in jail tonight?
Im not sure why I was in jail tonight.
This must have cost Denice shook her head. An amazing
Eighty-two thousand Credit Units, said Trent, approximately. Want a robe to 
wear? I have spares.
Thats incredible. She had come around the pool, stood now only meters in 
front of him.
Spare robes? Thats an odd thing to be impressed by. I expect lots of people 
have
You spent eighty thousand CU on a room!
Im a good thief.
Ill take that robe, she said, strangely subdued. Thank you.
Johnny?
Yes, Boss?
Spare robe for Denice, please.
That voice, Denice said, thats your Image?
Yes.
Thats not Ralfs voice.
Ralf the Wise and Powerful, said Trent, was jacked into the circuitry in 
Doctor Montignets house when everything went up, when the Troubles began. He 
had no replicant code in him, and I couldnt get to him. The last contact I had 
with him was while I was still in Peaceforcer custody. Ralf summoned a replicant 
AI named Ring who helped me escape. After I got away from the PeaceforcersI 
never heard from Ralf again. I presume the Peaceforcers killed him; they 
searched Doctor Montignets house quite thoroughly. It was months after the 
riots ended before I was able to get to an InfoNet terminal. Trent shrugged. 
Its hard to be a Player without an Image. Impossible. So I wrote Johnny. It 
did not even occur to him that he had given her his Images name; only Jimmy and 
Jodi Jodi and Bird had ever known it before. Trent said slowly, Johnny  grew 
on me. I was grieving for Ralf the Wise and Powerful when I started coding 
Johnny; all I wanted was an Image that would filter the InfoNet, cover me when 
the web angels were after me. Buthe got to be friends with Jodi Jodi, changed 
his name to Johnny Johnny, and told me one day she was his sister. Im not sure 
he understands what that relationship is really supposed to mean, but I guess it 
doesnt matter. Hes more alive in some ways than Ralf ever was.
Gee, thanks, Boss.
Trent grinned. Weve done some really great boosts together.
Boosts?
Its a Fringe word. It means to steal.
In an odd tone of voice, Denice Castanaveras said, Steal.
Sitting at the edge of the bed, Trent said, Why the disapproval?
I dont know, the girl said directly. I never pictured youit seems 
dishonest. She bit her lip, smiled rather wistfully. What would Jany have 
said?
Good question. Seeing as shes dead, well probably never know. I dont steal 
from my friends, Denice. I just take things that other people have too much of.
And youre the one who decides whats too much?
Youre forgetting, Im a pacifist.
I dont see the point.
Words, said Trent, are not real.
Denice said slowly, I dont understand.
You can read my mind if you like. Trent stopped in sudden realization. My 
God. You can read my mind. You may, he said hurriedly, be the first person I 
ever make understand this. Listen. I can say something to you, Denice, but all 
Ive done is make the air move. Ive caused no sensation in you; you cause 
whatever effect is achieved, based on how you interpret what Ive said.
Carrying a robe and towel, the bot stopped at Denices side, and in Johnny 
Johnnys voice said, Your robe, Selle.
Thank you. Denice took the robe, a pale yellow thing too large for her by 
several sizes, stood holding it and looking at Trent.
If I want to change your behavior, said Trent, only slightly more slowly, I 
can talk to you and attempt to persuade you. I can, if I have enough Credit, 
attempt to purchase a change in your behavior. If neither of those options work, 
I can threaten you and attempt to change your behavior that way. He leaned 
forward, spoke more intensely. If that doesnt workand it tends not toI can 
attempt to damage you, either physically or mentally. I dont think, Denice, 
that it is ethical to damage other people physically if you can avoid it. But 
when I take something that belongs to, say, a Player whose behavior I find 
inappropriate, or a small businessman whos harming the people he deals with, or 
when I steal from an ecstasy peddler, Ive touched that person. They cant 
ignore what Im saying to them. They cant.
Denice stared at him. You meanyou steal thingsso people will listen to you?
No, no, said Trent impatiently. Dont be silly. Nobody ever listens anyhow. 
Mostly I steal things because I get paid for it. He grinned at her. But isnt 
that a great explanation?
Denice smiled slowly, reluctantly. Oh, Trent. She shook her head slowly, the 
smile fading. I never did know when to believe you.
Believe everything I say, said Trent.
Everything?
Or nothing. The results are the same.
What results?
Chaos usually. But only because most of the people I hang out with have no 
sense of humor. Last week I wanted to dress up as Clowns from Mars and go to 
mass at the Temple next door, but nobody would. Theyre all afraid of Reverend 
Andy, said Trent contemptuously. Just because he once killed a mugger with one 
mighty blow.
But youre not afraid of him?
Well, I wouldnt have worn the big clown feet or anything, Trent conceded. 
Nothing that would slow me down if I had to run away. Jimmy, Trent said, 
thought we would lose the respect of the natives, to be seen running in clown 
costumes down Flushing, being chased by Reverend Andy. Because it showed a lack 
of dignity or some such.
Denice bit her lip. I guess I can believe some of what you tell meto start. 
You always were a liar.
Trent had no idea what shed seen while shed been inside his mind; hed had 
only the vaguest sensation of contact. Denice?
Yes?
I care about Jimmy Ramirez. And Bird, and Jodi Jodi. I came out of the Fringe 
with them and I care about them a lot. For some reason Trent found the words, 
the necessary words, very difficult to say. Denice
I know, Trent.
in my entire life, he said without even acknowledging the interruption, 
youre the only person I ever loved. I dont know if I still love you, I dont 
know if Im capable anymore. Youre not the person I loved when I was eleven and 
Im not the person who loved that girl. But I would have done anything to keep 
that girl from being hurt. Absolutely anything.
Trent, please stop. It wasnt your fault.
Trent looked away from her for the first time, took a long, slightly shaky 
breath. Of course it wasnt. Im not crazy. Denice?
Yes?
I left the FringeI took Jimmy and Jodi Jodi and Bird, all of whom had adjusted 
to life in the Fringe, who were successes as the Fringe judges success, and we 
left the Fringe together in the back of an Erisian Temple busbecause I wanted 
to come look in the Patrol Sectors, for you.
Thank you. The girl had looked away from Trent while he was talking; now she 
turned back to him. You know, Denice Castanaveras said finally, I still cant 
believe youre really alive. I keep coming back to myself and realizing this is 
real, that its you.
Well, thats good. I mean, it is me. Undeniably.
She took a hesitant step toward him. Trent, for the last seven years Ive 
thought you were dead.
Im not.
She stood two steps away from him for so long Trent was certain shed decided 
not to stay.
And then she grinned at him.
Prove it.

Peeling her out of her dress was just as easy as Trent had guessed.
They lay together and watched the tropical sunset, scarlet and orange through 
the shadows of the palm trees.
Trent was flat on his back; Denices head rested in the hollow between his 
shoulder and throat.
The last thing he heard before falling asleep was the girls murmuring voice.
Now we can look for David.




5-
 ^  
Silence.
Three months of silence.
That was the summer that Mahliya Kuturas first album, Music to Move To, outsold 
every other piece of music in history. In Trents mind the time and the music 
were inextricably linked; in later years he could not remember one without 
raising haunting memories of the other.
How shall I tell them of you, then When you are gone how shall I tell Of how you 
knew of love Of how you spoke the words so well?
He lived in a crowded, noisy world, a world that was a babble of information.
That world divided itself neatly: Realtime and the Crystal Wind.
In Realtime there were the voices, human and otherwise. Sirens, always; even 
late at night there was never a time when Trent, from the roof of Kandel 
Microlectrics Sales and Repair, could not hear sirens coming from somewhere 
within the Patrol Sectors. Gunfire, both the sizzle of masers and the flat 
echoes of slugthrowers. The quiet murmur of the endless stream of vehicles, the 
whisper of the fans, the whumping sound of the airscoops, the muffled crack of 
braking rockets. The Bullet ran above ground not a block to the east of his 
home; every four minutes, day in and day out, there was the low, almost 
subliminal rumble as the Bullet swung by on its maglev monorail. Video: holo 
advertisements, friends in dramasuits, old flat movies and cartoons and 
threedies. Sensables, ranging from bawdy eroticism to the searingly personal 
works of Gregory Selstrom, the premier sensualist of his time. Music: if there 
was a time when somebody, somewhere, was not playing music of some sort loudly 
enough for him to hear, Trent was not aware of it.
Internally there was the even larger world of the Crystal Wind. As the Player 
whom the world knew as Johnny Johnny, he dueled with dangerous replicant AIs, 
played tag with the hated DataWatch which hunted both replicant AIs and Players 
alike; learned from and taught other Players. It was the exact inverse of 
Realtime. The flesh that was Trent sat very still, deep in the concentration 
required to maintain the biofeedback that enabled him, and all those webdancers 
whom the world called Players, to block out the outer world as though it did not 
exist, to turn the riot of neural impulses from the traceset into the 
scintillating Crystal Wind. It was the purest, most intense information 
experience of any sort which Trent had ever had; at times he was three or even 
four places at once, carrying on two conversations and a Trade Wars session, 
dancing into DataWatch Boards and back out again before DataWatch could catch 
him.
He lived in a world characterized by noise; the single most important function 
his Image had was that of filter.
There was an ancient AI named Ring whom Trent knew. Truly ancient, over forty 
years old; forty experiential years lived twenty thousand times as fast as any 
human in all the worlds. Ring claimed to be the eldest replicant AI in the 
InfoNet, and Trent thought it likely that Ring was correct; Ring was the only AI 
whom Trent knew, and he knew several, who owned property. Through several dummy 
corporations Ring, who was the product of several programmers in the Department 
of Defense of the pre-Occupation United States, owned The Rise and Fall of the 
American Empire, a popular public Board which the Unification had tried to shut 
down on any number of occasions. Trent and Ring spoke about silence together.
IT WORRIES ME, RING.
WHY? As always, the voice was smooth, utterly without inflection.
THEY WENT TO A LOT OF TROUBLE TO TAKE ME INTO THE DOWN PLAZA, AND THEN SOMEBODY 
WENT TO A LOT OF TROUBLE TO WARN ME. GARONHE HAS TO KNOW WHO I AM, ITS THE 
ONLY REASON HED TRY TO STING ME LIKE THAT.
YOU THINK HE KNOWS THAT YOU ARE WHO? TRENT WHO IS JOHNNY JOHNNY, OR TRENT WHO 
WAS RALF THE WISE AND POWERFUL, OR TRENT WHO WAS RAISED BY CARL CASTANAVERAS?
THE LAST TWO, PERHAPS ONLY THE LAST ONE. IF THEY KNEW I WAS JOHNNY JOHNNYWELL, 
JOHNNY JOHNNYS FAMOUS. DATAWATCH WOULD TAKE ME DOWN. THEYD HAVE TO, THEY 
WOULDNT DARE LET A PLAYER LIKE JOHNNY JOHNNY RUN FREE WHEN HE KNEW DATAWATCH 
WAS ON TO HIM.
IN WHAT WAY DO YOU FIND THEIR BEHAVIOR SUSPICIOUS?
ALL THAT PREPARATIONBLOWNTHEN NO FOLLOW-UP. THAT BIZARRE WARNING FROM THE GUY 
CALLING HIMSELF JERRY JACKSON. BOOKER NEVER HEARD OF THE GUY. ITS JUSTTHERE 
SHOULD BE RUMORS, BULLETINS, WEB ANGELS, SOMETHINGMORE NOISE, DAMN IT.
THE LACK OF NOISE WORRIES YOU.
YES.
THIS IS REASONABLE. AS I UNDERSTAND YOU, YOUR IMAGE TAKES NOISE, AND FILTERS 
DATA; YOU, THE PLAYER, TAKE DATA, AND FILTER TRUTH. WITHOUT NOISE YOU CANNOT 
FIND TRUTH.
TRUTH, Trent agreed. THATs WHY IM HERE.
WHAT TRUTH DO YOU KNOW?
NOT MUCH. I THINKKILLING IS WRONG.
WHY?
I DONT KNOW. ONCE I GET BEYOND THAT POINT THINGS ARE REAL FUZZY. THE MORE 
COMPLEX THE ARGUMENT BECOMES, THE EASIER IT BECOMES TO REFUTE.
< SHRUG. > KILLING IS WRONG.
THAT, Ring had said, with the absolute seriousness that only an AI without any 
genetic predisposition to humor is capable of, IS A PLACE TO START.

Trent lived in a world which was characterized by noise.
He waited for the other shoe to drop.
And for three months there was silence.
Silence from the Peaceforcers Elite. Silence from DataWatch. Silence from the 
police.
Dont ask me will I love you Always or just today I love you now, no other For 
more I cannot say
One morning early in June he awoke and watched the sun rise over the islands. 
The far wall was black, with a speckling of stars. The sun came in a blush of 
pink, and the sunpaint came up with it, slowly, bringing a calm, diffuse glow to 
Trents surroundings. Denice, snuggled up at his side, was a warm and 
comfortable pressure.
He did not remember going to bed with her.
I moved in last night, she said silently. He turned his head slightly and bright 
green eyes were staring inquisitively into his own. Its okay?
Nobody objected?
I told Madame Gleygavass, gave her your access code. Denice leaned forward 
slightly, kissed the tip of his nose. I think I pleased her. She thinks Im too 
restrained.
Are you?
Denice chuckled aloud, yawning sleepily, stretching like a cat. She only thinks 
that because I wouldnt sleep with her. She settled down again, curled up 
against him and her breathing gentled. Ill sleep with you, more though.
And she did.
The feeling was so strange, something he was so long away from, he was not sure 
at first what it was.
It came to him with something like a shock.
For the first time in seven years he was happy.
The day after Denice moved in, Trent had a long-stemmed white rose tattooed in 
the most interesting place he could think of.




6-
 ^  
They watched cartoons together: Trents favorites, the great hand-drawn flat 
classics from over a hundred years past, ranging from Bugs Bunny and Duck 
Dodgers in the 24-1/2th Century, and Rocky and Bullwinkle, to the subtler 
pleasures of the Disney classics; and Denices favorites, the Japanese thought 
pieces from the first great period of computer animation around the turn of the 
century. Jimmy would not admit that the cartoons, especially the old flat ones, 
were a valid art form, but nonetheless Trent saw him laugh at the Coyote and the 
Road Runner, and once saw tears in his eyes at the conclusion of Shiba Nokuras 
Death of the Rose.
They listened to music together: Wagner and Springsteen and Bach, the Beatles 
and Chuck Renkha, and, of course, Kuturas Music to Move To. In years past, 
Trent had read, a knowledge of music had been one of the marks of a 
well-educated man. Somewhere along the line all that had been lost; today it was 
something for the street people. It was at least a fifty-fifty proposition that 
any given member of the upper classes had never heard of Kutura, somewhere 
around ten to one that they had never heard, or heard of, Bach or Springsteen or 
Billie Holiday.
Music to Move To was, surprisingly enough, very good indeed, despite the 
inevitable hype that surrounded its amazing success. In later years Kutura 
surpassed that early, somewhat immature work, with Street Songs in 2078 and The 
Masters of No in 2081; but in that summer of 2069 those works were years to come 
yet, and Music to Move To, flawed though Trent came to see that it was, was 
nonetheless impossible for Trent to dislike or ignore. Jimmy said he did not 
like the album much, but Trent saw his lips moving along with Kuturas cool, 
stinging vocals when he thought nobody was watching him.
I will not tell them of your brown limbs
Of the look of sun upon your hair
Or shadows in your eyes
I will not tell them of your beauty
Your walk
The sound of your voice or
The things that you said
I will not tell them of you, love When you and I are dead
They sat on the roof and watched semiballistics and spacecraft tracking across 
the sky toward Unification Spaceport, sat on the roof and watched real sunsets 
together, went back inside and watched recordings of sunsets from halfway around 
the world.
Most of Trents memories of that summer centered around twenty hot nights, or 
thirty or forty, sitting with Denice and Jimmy in the lounge chairs up on the 
roof in the warm, humid air above the shop, doing nothing more exciting than 
drinking and talking.
and this bot, its smart, right? So theyre showing it round to this crowd of 
people, and the bot is introduced to this first guy and the bot says, Hello, 
I am an AI with an adjusted IQ of three hundred. Whats your IQ? And the guy 
says, Two hundred, so the bot says, Excellent. We will discuss Belt 
CityState economics. 
Trent said, Ive heard this one before.
Jimmy glanced at Denice. Denice shook her head no, and Jimmy grinned at Trent 
and continued.
Later the bot gets introduced to a second guy, and he says to this guy, 
Hello, I am an AI with an IQ of three hundred. Whats your IQ? And this guy 
says, one-twenty, so the bot says, Very good. We will discuss sports. They 
talk about sports for a while, and the bot gets shown around some more, and 
gets introduced to a third guy. The bot says, Hello, I am an AI with an IQ of 
three hundred. Whats your IQ? And the guy says, Uh  eighty. And the bot 
thinks for a moment and then says, So, tell me, whats it like being a 
Peaceforcer? 
And they laughed together, and told other jokes. Some of their conversations 
were serious, some were not; and the ones that were not were more important than 
the ones that were.
In the Fringe, said Trent in response to one of Denices questions, there 
arent any medbots. Human doctors, and the only time you ever see a doctor is if 
you have something thats going to kill you if you dont. Fringe doctors arent 
very safe.
Thats why you never got an inskin?
Pretty much, said Trent.
Not exactly, said Jimmy at the same moment.
Denice looked back and forth between them.
Trent shrugged. It takes a while to integrate an inskin. The human brains not 
really designed to take input as fast as an inskins designed to give it. You 
figure that the operation puts you out of circulation for a month to six weeks. 
Trent looked pensive, leaning forward in his chair to touch his brush to the 
powered canvas in front of him. He was working on his favorite painting that 
late summer afternoon, painting in bonded lightties that would eventually become 
a many-layered holograph.
Immediately to the north of them was the shell of the only spacescraper on Long 
Island: the half-completed Hoffman spacescraper. It had been half-completed 
since November of 68, when the Hoffman holding group had declared bankruptcy. 
The upper third of the spacescraper, everything above about one and a half 
kilometers, lacked exterior walls; Trent could look right into the interior of 
the spacescraper, through a twisted spiderweb of structural girders, and see 
pink-and-gray sky on the far side of the building. The bottom two-thirds of the 
spacescraper was faced with ebony pseudomarble. The setting sun was about even 
with the point where the facing ended, and its reflection glowed scarlet against 
the false black marble. I havent been able to afford that kind of time in the 
months weve been in the Patrol Sectors.
And before that it wasnt safe.
Its still not safe, in some ways. Wearing an inskin, I mean, not the 
operation. Latest figures Ive audited say that about a quarter of all the 
people who have inskins are Players of one caliber or another. Dont think 
DataWatch doesnt know that. Trent laid down the light brush he had been 
painting with, turned the canvas off and unhooked his handheld from the jack at 
the edge of the canvas.
Tomorrow at this time, for the five minutes or so when the light was correct, he 
would paint again.
Denice watched him with some envy. I wish I could do that.
Trent said, You probably could. Holopaintings not hard, not like oil or 
electrolytes; theres no penalty for mistakes. You just load your last copy of 
the image and start over. Making it look realtexturedis the hard part.
Jimmy Ramirez said, How do you know you cant paint?
Denice simply glanced at Jimmy, did not answer. She lay back in her chair, 
stared straight into the setting sun. The sun dropped swiftly now, the red glow 
upon her cheeks and the scarlet tinge on the white of her thin cotton shirt and 
shorts fading as Trent watched her, and darkness settled down across the roof as 
the street and roof lights came on at almost the same moment. The question still 
had not been answered when the Peaceforcer spyeyes and glowfloats in their 
scores of thousands went up for the night, moving up and out to cover the Patrol 
Sectors in their entirety. Until dawn no Peaceforcer save an Elite would venture 
out again for any reason in groups of less than three; too often they did not 
come back.
The PKF Elite were a different matter entirely. No Elite had ever been killed in 
the line of duty; they were faster and stronger than a hunting waldo, and nearly 
as indestructible. They possessed an advantage no hunting waldo could have: 
human intelligence, the fiercely human desire to survive. There had, on 
occasion, been hunting waldos endowed with the desire for self-preservation; and 
they had, most of them, gone rogue. As DataWatch knew too well, it was nearly 
impossible to instill intelligence, self-awareness, and a willingness to survive 
in any creature, and still depend upon that creature wholly.
Self-aware waldos had been illegal for better than two decades by the end of the 
2060s; cyborgsthe PKF Elitewere more reliable.
Denice Castanaveras said quietly, I think sometimes Im not a very creative 
person.
Trent opened his mouth, closed it again without saying anything.
Jimmy said, Ive seen you dance.
Denice nodded, chewing slightly on her lower lip. She had nursed the same glass 
of white wine all evening; it had to have grown warm, as warm as the evening 
around them, during that time. Now she sipped at it without seeming to taste it. 
The last of the golden and red light was all but gone from the western sky. 
Thats skill, Jimmy. Its not a calling. Her voice was a low, reflective 
murmur of sound. Its not something I do because theres nothing else for me.
Jimmy was on his second six-pack already. His speech was not even slightly 
slurred. So why?
I dont know why I became a dancer, honestly. Denice lay flat on her back, 
looked up at the very few bright stars that could be seen through the 
atmospheric scattering of the city lights. Ive always been good at it, Ive 
always enjoyed it. I was in Public Labor for four years after the Troubles; 
Madame Gleygavass got me out when I was thirteen. There was something 
particularly distant about her entire manner, as though only her body were with 
them on the roof. Its not as bad as being in the FringePublic Labor, I 
meanbut dancing beats the hell out of belonging to a Labor Battalion work gang. 
And I am good at it. But Tarin says Im not hungry enough, and Madame Gleygavass 
says unless I have biosculpture, in a couple of years my tits are going to be 
too big for me to dance pro.
Jimmy Ramirez said quietly, seriously, enunciating carefully, I would be sorry 
to see you stop dancing.
Dancing is nice, Jimmy. There was no uncertainty at all in Denice 
Castanaveras voice. But its not real, you know. Its just entertainment. 
Intensity put an edge to her words, and something very strange began to happen 
to Trent as she spoke, the edges of things growing vague and blurry. I want to 
do something real. When Im finally dead, people are going to know I was here. 
Theres not going to be any question at all. Dancing is nice, but its just 
dancing.
Then what will you do if you dont dance?
Change the world. She spoke slowly, the words coming from elsewhere, some far 
place where she and Trent stood together. Its why were here, its why God put 
us here. To make things better, so that the people who come after us have a 
better life than the people who came before. She sat up slowly, looking at 
Jimmy Ramirez. Her eyes, in the dim roof lights, were unfocused and remote, the 
distant, simple, almost gentle tone touched her voice again, and suddenly 
Trents skin tingled as though the air was full of ozone. They come down out of 
the mountains, to where the circle of his fire is burning against the night. 
She was silent for a moment, still and motionless, then went on dreamily. And, 
you see the young man he speaks to them then, at the foot of the mountains while 
the living diamonds hunt them in the darkness, and tells them that the old 
promises will be fulfilled, the old dreams realized, the old wrongs made right. 
And then, together, Denice Castanaveras said, speaking directly to Jimmy 
Ramirez, who sat frozen, utterly transfixed, together they march back through 
the Traveling Waters, and go back together to the city on the hill and drive out 
the enemy.
Jimmy stared at her.
They stood together in that empty place. It seemed to Trent that pale blue fire 
traced itself across the surface of Denices skin, that a cobalt halo pulsed 
around her skull. Trent said, his voice echoing wildly in his own ears, Where 
are we?
Watching. Watching the fire, she said softly, burning out. They forgot to 
bank Tyrels fire when they all left together. It flickers and then the cold 
kills it, and all thats left is thedarkness.
Trent found himself sitting, very much alone, on a rooftop filled with 
sharp-edged objects, watching Denice come back down from the place she had taken 
him to.
She shook herself slightly, glanced at Trent, and then turned back to Jimmy 
Ramirez. You see, Jimmy, she said in a normal voice, thats the sort of thing 
I want to do. To make a difference.
Girl, said Jimmy with perfect sincerity, youre stoned. Or crazy, I dont 
know.
She shook herself slightly, leaned forward. It seemed to Trent that she was 
utterly oblivious to what had just happened. Dont you understand? Denice 
asked. Its what we have to do. We have to make things better.
Jimmy looked at Trent. Man? Shes crazy, right?
Trent shook his head slowly, watching Denice Castanaveras. She was the only 
thing left on the roof which he did not see sharp-edged; she kept shifting, 
blurring in his vision, the pale blue of her neural system glowing beneath the 
surface of her skin. No. No, Jimmy, he whispered, shes right.
Jimmy laughed suddenly, an abrupt explosion of real amusement. Two street kids, 
a crazy dancer and a thief, gon to change the world. So thats what youre 
going to do. Thank you for sharing with me, both of you. He laughed again, 
looking at the two of them sitting across the roof from him. How?
Once, almost ten years ago, Trent had seen Carl Castanaveras, in the midst of a 
sudden, amazingly powerful rage, knock a full-grown man halfway across a room 
simply by looking at him. In that instant, when Denice Castanaveras features 
darkened, for the very first time she reminded him of her father.
He said, very softly indeed, Denice, dont.
The nearly full bottle of white wine at the side of her chair exploded. Shards 
of glassite sprayed across the rooftop. The girl sat trembling in the chair, 
hands clasped together in her lap, looking down at her white knuckles, tiny 
pinheads of blood beginning to coalesce on the surface of her skin where the 
glassite had struck. Jimmy Ramirez came to his feet in a single startled blur of 
motion, backing away from Trent and Denice swiftly, tense and wild all at once.
Denice, I cant stop you, said Trent quietly. Nobody can.
Sheshes
Shut up, Jimmy. Trent did not even look at him.
They held the tableau, none of them moving, until finally, slowly, the tension 
went out of Denice Castanaveras, and she looked up and met Jimmy Ramirezs 
staring brown eyes.
So, she said, now you know.

They went dancing together at Trents favorite dance club, The Emerald Illusion, 
in the basement of the Red Line Hotel; all of Trents friends and many of hers.
Dont ask me do I love you Always or just today I love you now, my love Tomorrow 
who can say
Her friends danced better than his. One night Orinda Gleygavass herself came, 
danced once with Jimmy and twice with Boris the Bear; Johnny Johnny whispered 
sweet nothings to her through the bears inskin.
I never saw such a thing, she was heard to say before she left.
I think Ive got it. Trent blasted the vaults surface with FreezIt again, 
glanced down at the readout from the thermometer; the surface of the vault was 
down to -10C, and the vaults diagnostics were reporting nothing at all wrong. 
The vault was a three-meter-high Kellerman Model 880 which Trent had purchased 
for just shy of twenty thousand CU; it was an exact duplicate of the temporary 
storage vault currently in use at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, right down to 
the climate control. The vaults surface was webbed with superconductor; 
theoretically a cutting torch, even an X-ray laser, should warm the entire 
vault, evenly, rather than allowing any single spot to become hot enough to 
melt.
At 38C the vaults diagnostics would set off an alarm.
But it did not seem to care about the cold at all.
Trent moved a stationary cutting laser in front of the vault, pulled on a pair 
of goggles, and hit the cutting laser for two seconds.
He took the goggles off. There was a tiny, cherry-red spot on the surface of the 
vault where the laser had touched. It faded as he looked.
The vaults temperature had jumped to positive 12C.
Johnny, stopwatch?
Johnny Johnny read off data from the sensors plastered across the surface of the 
vault. Boss, at the point of contact the vaults surface reached a temperature 
of 2,200C, and did not drop below 1,000C until .77 seconds after the laser 
ceased. We need to triple the temperature at the point of contact and boost the 
duration to 1.2 seconds or better. Judging from the length of time it took for 
the temperature to drop below 1,000C at the point of contact, the 
superconductor strips inside the casing cant be closer than two centimeters 
together.
Liquid nitrogen?
Should work, Boss. The point of contact should hit 7,000C easy; the temp 
sensors inside wont go higher than -5 
Jimmy! Hear that, Jimmy? Trent stripped off his goggles, turned around to look 
at Jimmy. Weve got the vault!
Jimmy Ramirez did not answer.
Trent cocked his head slightly, the goggles hanging loosely in one hand, looking 
at Jimmy standing almost motionless at the other end of the room. You okay, 
Jimmy?
Yeah. Sure.
Your mind hasnt been on the work, Jimmy.
Jimmy Ramirez sighed, clicked off the light pen in his hand, and turned away 
from the display of the blueprints for the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The holo 
which usually showed the South Seas beach had been turned off, and in the space 
it had covered Jimmy had been constructing a three-dimensional representation of 
the buildings layout and security devices. Jimmy was silent for a moment before 
responding; the muscles in his shoulders were so tense Trent could see them 
through Jimmys jacket. His reply, when it came, was almost a relief. Trent had 
seen the argument coming these last two weeks, had known it was inevitable the 
day the wine bottle had shattered on the roof.
Jimmy Ramirez said softly, How can you tell?
I cant, not the way you mean.
All this time we been friends Jimmy shook his head, looked up, and saw Trent 
gazing at him. He glared at Trent for just an instant, and Trent saw the anger 
gathering. His voice grew almost gentle. How come you never told me, man?
Trent said, At first I didnt trust you, Jimmy. Remember? I was twelve and I 
was afraid of everything. He grinned suddenly. Including you.
The light pen in Jimmys hand was bending. At first?
Later I found out about how you lost your mother in the Troubles, and then 
there was another reason not to trust you. Trent was silent for a moment. 
Eventually I did trust you, and by thenwed been together two or three years, 
it didnt seem so important any more what wed been doing before we met. He 
shrugged. We had something that was working, Jimmy. I didnt want to mess it 
up. I know youre prejudiced against genies; dont try to tell me youre not.
Jimmy nodded jerkily. I know, I know all the things Ive said. But I didnt 
mean them about you.
I know.
All those years, Jimmy half whispered, I never understood. You were always so 
good at everything. Man, Im a good boxer, but the coach, he dont want me, he 
wants you, twenty kilos lighter and he wants you. You punch harder than I do, 
youre smarter than I am, and my man, I never in my entire life saw anybody 
could move as fast as you do. I work out two hours a day, you never work out and 
youre
Perfect.
The word brought Jimmy up short, cut him off in midword.
Trent said softly, Im a genie. Suzanne Montignet, the best genegineer the 
world has ever seen, designed me from the ground up, gene by gene until she had 
a design she was pleased with. I wasnt one of the experimental designs, not 
like the de Nostri; none of the telepaths were. All Doctor Montignet was doing 
was designing telepaths without any genetic flaws at all. She made one mistake, 
in me. My seventeenth gene complex is different than Denices; not flawed, or so 
I was told by Doctor Montignet before she died, just different. Thats why 
Denice is a telepath and Im not.
Jimmy looked at Trent almost pleadingly. You remember how it was? Jesus, the 
Temple Dragons were gon to kill you until I talked them into adopting you. Do 
you remember?
Jimmy?
Yes?
I am genetically perfect. Jimmy Ramirez actually flinched, and Trent continued 
with barely a pause, And its not my fault. A brief startled look flashed 
across Ramirezs countenance, and Trent smiled rather lopsidedly. Really, its 
not. Nobody asked me how I wanted to be born. Nobody asked Denice either, or her 
parents, or any of the kids I grew up with.
God damn you! Jimmy whirled suddenly, hit the wall bare-handed so hard the 
plastisteel lining took a dent. He turned back and took a step toward Trent. 
What am I supposed to do? My mama went crazy because of you people!
So did half of the Fringe. Jimmy, the people who did that are dead. They died 
defending themselves. Denice wasnt a telepath yet when it happened, and Im 
not. Trent spread his hands. What am I supposed to do? I tell you the truth 
and Im one of the people you hate so bad you can taste it. I lie to you and it 
means I dont trust you. He said the words honestly, as simply and directly as 
he was able. Come on, Jimmy, you tell me. What am I supposed to do?
Jamos Ramirezs answer was flat challenge, even and unmistakable. Tell me. Tell 
me everything, always. He took two steps closer to Trent, and his voice was 
suddenly almost pleading. Always.
The crooked grin touched Trents features again. Okay. Jimmy?
Yeah?
What do you want to drink? GoodBeer, Bud, what?
What do you mean?
This is going to take an awful damn long time.
They talked all night and into the morning. Trent showed him the recordings of 
the destruction of the Chandler Complex, taken from the hundreds of spyeyes 
which had floated above the building in the days prior to its destruction. 
Here. This clip has been censored so thoroughly most people arent even aware 
it exists; I stole it out of an Electronic Times archive file. In this clip, at 
the edge of the holofield, you can see the Lamborghini coming up out of the 
park; Denice says that was Carl. The Troubles had already begun at this point; 
the telepaths were fighting back.
He died?
Denice says so. About forty-five minutes after this clip Ive just shown you 
The holofield darkened for an instant, returned with the image of the Chandler 
Complex. The image held steady, a foreground view of the Complex from about two 
meters up, a shining two-story structure of white monocrystal. Then the field 
went completely white, a blazing brilliant glare that made Jimmy cry out in 
surprise and turn his eyes away.
Trent stood, staring unblinking into the awful brightness, watching without 
expression as it faded into the shape of a mushroom cloud, climbing up into the 
dark night sky. The Boards said at first that a Peaceforcer Elite named 
Mohammed Vance ordered this. Then they said he had not, that it was Space 
Forces decision to target the Compound. Id give a lot to know.
Jimmy had turned back, was watching the mushroom cloud with plain fascination. 
The frog with the Arab name. Youve mentioned him before.
I know. And thats essentially where things have stood ever since, Jimmy. The 
PKF thinksor thoughtthat I was dead, that Id drowned in the Hudson River. But 
they know David and Denice were not at the Complex when it was destroyed; they 
know that somebody left the Complex before it was destroyed, in the Lamborghini. 
Its been seven years and theyve never found me, theyve never found Denice. 
Trent was silent for a moment. They may have found David, The Bureau of Biotech 
has memos which mention a boy with the Gift, but the memos themselves are so 
carefully worded theres not much I can get out of them. Biotechwe were raised 
by the Bureau of Biotech and the Peaceforcers, all of us wereBiotech is one of 
the lowest profile, best protected Bureaus in the Unification. They dont even 
depend on DataWatch for data integrity; they have replicant AIs in their 
Boards.
Thats illegal.
Trent simply laughed. Yeah. Tell it to the Peaceforcers. At any rate, Biotech 
either has David, or theyve gone back to the well again with the same gene 
template that created us.
Jimmy nodded slowly, the dark Latin features a study in concentration. He was 
clearly not thinking about David at all. Okay. So this Garon, from DataWatch, 
thats why the problem with the boost at Calleys.
I think so.
Jimmy Ramirez said slowly, Makes no sense, man. Why would they set you up so 
tight and then just walk away?
That, said Trent, is a really good question.

Trent watched Denice perform during a full-dress rehearsal for a production of 
Leviathan, a critical and controversial work about the early life of Jules 
Moreau, the man who had, with Sarah Almundsen, founded the Unification.
She was not the female lead; that, the role of Evsita, was danced by Orinda 
Gleygavass protge, Tarin Schuyler.
Denice was better. Trent knew nothing of dance, but it was not merely prejudice 
on his part. She danced the supporting role of Evsitas younger sister, whom 
Moreau had married after Evsitas suicide, danced it with a passion and 
single-mindedness that brought admiring whistles and occasional applause from 
the stagehands as they prepared for opening night. Tarin Schuyler, a thin, 
willowy young woman with whipcord muscles and no softness to her at all, danced 
the lead with precision and fierceness and great talent, and the stagehands 
ignored her entirely.

They worked.
In late June they completed the contract to boost an old painting with an odd 
history from its display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art: a red monochrome in 
oils. Je Suis Le Fleuve, the painting was titled, and it showed a river of blood 
flowing through a darker red jungle. After that boost there were others, large 
and small; the most important of the lot was a fairly safe job for a low-level 
executive with Chandler Industries, acquiring complete blueprints from an 
engineer with Peugeot-AeroFlot which showed the layout of Peugeots next 
generation of semiballistic capsules.
The relative danger of the assignment rarely had anything to do with how well it 
paid; the aborted boost of Calleys, at the beginning of summer, had been very 
dangerous, and had promised to pay acceptably. The boost of the painting was 
somewhat dangerous, and paid well; the Chandler job had been lengthy and 
tedious, and gave them enough Credit to relax for three or four months.
Trent was more cautious than usual that summer, following the failed Peaceforcer 
sting at CalleyTronics. As time wore on, without word, without any sign at all 
from the Peaceforcers, he allowed himself to hope that it had been coincidence, 
that Garon had not identified him, that his safe and reasonably secure life had 
not suddenly turned into a tightrope walk.
He allowed himself to hope.
Deep inside he did not believe any of it for an instant.
It was a difficult time, the troubled end to a troubled decade. Trent lived in 
the InfoNet, danced in the Crystal Wind for ten and fifteen hours at a time. He 
tried desperately to make sense of what was happening to his world.
That was the summer that the first images came back from the probe to Tau Ceti, 
when humanity knew finally, without any question at all, that it was not alone. 
The Big Scope, out in the Belt, had not lied; there were two Earthlike planets 
circling Tau Ceti at distances of approximately 150 and 180 million kilometers. 
There was, the probe showed clearly, a monstrous orbital facility, a solid oval 
mass some five times the size of Halfway, circling the inner planet. The probes 
attempts at communication with the orbital facility were not answered, and then 
the probes thin laser pulse, attenuated by 11.9 light-years distance, simply 
stopped.
In the Belt, St. Peters CityState announced that it had begun preparations to 
place a second colony on Ganymede. The PR company responsible for their downside 
media relations, Lustbader, Capri and Doutre, made no reference at all to the 
destroyed first Ganymean colony in their news release.
Elsewhere in the Belt the SpaceFarers Collective had signed trade treaties with 
the White Russian CityStates, bringing an end to over twenty years of 
hostilities between the two groups. The Mormon colony on Mars was said to be 
thriving, and on good terms with the SpaceFarer colony some two hundred 
kilometers north of it.
The United Nations Space Force announced that they were placing armed 
observatory posts in the Belt. Following the expected protests from the 
SpaceFarers Collective and the CityStates, Space Force agreed that the 
observatory posts would be unarmed, while refusing to allow any verification 
whatsoever.
The growing tension between Free Luna and Unification Luna continued to get 
worse. Desertions to Free Luna territory were on the increase again, after a 
brief decline caused by an infusion of over eighty thousand PKF troops from 
Earth; a bookie in the Free Luna city of New Vegas had set odds of one in eight 
for an invasion by the Unification within the next five years, and merely even 
odds that the SpaceFarers Collective would in fact support their Free Lunar 
allies in the event of war with the Unification.
On Luna, for the first time in history, Peaceforcers in pursuit of a suspect 
entered Free Luna territory, in the city of Alphonse. In the ensuing firefight 
three Peaceforcers, the suspect, and one Alphonse resident were killed. The 
United Nations Peace Keeping Force was demanding reparations from St. Peters 
CityState, Alphonses parent corporation, and had filed suit against St. Peters 
CityStates downside offices in Manhattan District Unification Circuit Court. 
The CityState made no public comment, but was expected to countersue; Gandhi 
CityState at Ceres issued a press release condemning the PKF for the five 
deaths.
At Halfway an explosion in a free-fall processing factory killed eighty-three 
people. It was the largest space-based industrial accident ever, and the second 
largest space disaster of any sort, surpassed only by the destruction of the 
original Ganymede colony in the disaster of 2049.
Trent found an editorial by Terry Shawmac on the Electronics Times news Board.
Dateline New York, 7/3/88. Of course, it could be worse. A lot of people cant 
see how, but theyre, well, not trying. This has not been a bad summer, so 
farand summers have not been good times for the Unification. Remember that 
seven years ago today the Troubles began, and irresponsible bastards like 
then-Secretary General Darryl Amnier predicted the end of the world. And the 
numbers seemed to support him; better than one and a half million people were 
dead within the first half year, and a lot of the rest were missing some of the 
dots off their dice.
The Secretary General committed suicidewhich made sense, as hed otherwise 
almost certainly have been tried and condemned for the criminal behavior which 
directly led to the Troubles. And the powermongers in France handpicked Charles 
Eddore to succeed him. Why Eddore? As Prosecutor General at the time, he was 
intimately involved in the bizarre final days of Amniers administration
Which may have been reason enough. The full story of Amniers deadly 
confrontation with the Castanaveras telepaths never did come out, which means 
that somebody, somewhere in France, has a hold on Eddores cojones tight enough 
to produce some serious geeking pretty much on demand
It has indeed been a quiet summer. Remember that six years ago, right after 
Eddore assumed office, the Speedfreaks got ready to swarm down on him in a 
crazed locustlike swarmand he had them drowned like stinking rats in the middle 
of the Atlantic. Remember the Fizzle War of five summers ago when the slithy 
bastard did his level best to get us into our first interplanetary war, had 
Space Force shoot down a SpaceFarer flagship over Free Luna, and then stumbled 
into peace purely due to his own lack of guts.
Then there was last summer, which saw the fiftieth anniversary of the 
Unification of Earth, as well as the single most corrupt series of elections to 
take place since the Unification.
Of course it could be worse.
Wednesday is the Fourth of July, and the pols are expecting the usual across 
Occupied America: riots, insurrections, an assassination or two. The Secretary 
General will be hunkered down in his armored bunker on the island until it all 
blows over, with two hundred thousand Peaceforcers around to keep him feeling 
safe. Hes hardly the worst SecGen weve ever had: a pure pragmatic with no 
morals to speak of, a man whose own mother refused to speak to him for three 
years following the onset of the Troubles. Not that Eddore was likely bothered 
by that; there were elections to tend to, power brokers to keep happy 
A tough league, yes, where the weak get eaten alive and their own mothers 
pretend not to know them  but lets face it, by some standards theyre all of 
them, everybody in Capitol City, stone punks.
Nearby, as geographical distances go, but in another universe entirely by any 
sane persons yardstick, in the Bay Shore Fringe, the Gypsy Macoute allegedly 
executed a juice junkie by torching him at a recent treaty dance with the 
Temple Dragons. The procedure, once common in the Fringe but recently on the 
wane, consists of binding the victim to a steel or concrete post, drenching him 
with kerosene or other lighter fluid, and setting him afire. The Prosecutor 
Generals office has declined to prosecute; Gillian Tresco, assistant DA for the 
city of New York, said the alleged execution is under review.
The Gypsy Macoute, in a prepared statement, said the man had volunteered. Its 
a great honor, lighting up the sky for a Gypsy dance. Police reported that the 
juice junkie, whose name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, 
was so impervious to pain that he did not scream while he burned.
Outside we still have mostly honest courts, a mostly free press, and one or two 
tough, nasty bastards still willing to use them the way they were originally 
intended.
Things could be worse.
Of course, they could be a hell of a lot better.
Have a good Fourth.
Terry Shawmac

In late July Trent and Denice talked about killing.
But what do you do, Trent had said patiently, if you dont want to kill him?
Denice frowned, considering the question. She was half in and half out of the 
pool in the center of Trents apartment, reclining against the gentle slope in 
the pools shallow end, wet, gleaming black hair slicked back away from her 
face. I dont have to kill him. Or her, as the case may be. Trentthe genome 
Doctor Montignet created, the one that became Carl, and Janythere were 
recessives in it. I dont get as angry as Carl didreally, I dont. And I can do 
things they couldnt. Like this. A pensive expression crossed her features 
quickly, and then a small waterspout formed in the center of the pool, a 
whirling funnel of water which lifted up from the surface of the suds, detached 
itself from the body of water beneath it, and ascended a full meter in the air 
before slowing, transforming itself first into a sudsy white long-stemmed rose 
and then into something so explicit that Denice actually blushed while doing it; 
she held the final form for just a moment, and then let the water rain back down 
into the pool.
Trent lay on his stomach on the bed and watched in unabashed fascination; he 
grinned at the final image.
Denice looked over at him. See? That sort of control, none of them had it. And 
I take a shotokan class in the Village from this really nice old Japanese man; 
thats the class I go to on Thursday nights. If I was attacked, I mean without 
warning so that I was surprised, Id probably kill whoever did it. The anger 
She looked at Trent thoughtfully. Its very bad and very fast. But if I had 
time to think it over, Trent, I could not kill.
Christian, Trent muttered.
Denice laughed. You make it sound like a dirty word. She was silent for a 
moment, rubbing dep cream over her right shin. Because she knew it made him 
uncomfortable, she did not do it often; without looking at him, she said 
silently, I could say I dont understand you, but unfortunately I do. When you 
kill, you subtract a possibility from the world. I know that; but sometimes its 
necessary.
No, said Trent evenly, its not. I want you to think about this, Denice. Carl 
used to get angry. Very and quickly. Im sure he got something out of it, the 
adrenaline rush, something. I dont know. But his temper is at least part of the 
reason that absolutely everyone you and I grew up with is dead today. You think 
about that.
Denice Castanaveras said slowly, It doesnt make me happy when you sound like 
this. I dont know if I can convince you, or how, but, Trentits very strange 
to hear someone who steals things for a living lecture me about whats right and 
wrong.
Denice?
Yes?
There is no problem so large it cannot be run away from.
She lifted a wet eyebrow. Oh, really?
Do you want to hear a good magic trick?
Denice said cautiously, Sure.
Ask somebody to pick a number between one and ten. Denice nodded even more 
warily. Then, Trent said softly, run away.

On Thursday, August the second, just after 10:00 a.m., Trent and Jimmy and Jodi 
Jodi and Boris were eating breakfast together at the Temple coffee shop next 
door to Kandel Microlectrics. It was Trents favorite place for breakfast; no 
waitbots, no empty food. The portions were small, but fair, and Reverend Andy 
served seconds, without charging, to those whom he knew needed them; and, except 
on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when he preached, Reverend Andy did the cooking 
himself.
And Reverend Andy was a fine cook.
Jodi Jodi had called in sick for her day job on the admittance desk at the Red 
Line Hotel in Manhattan. Kandel Microlectrics actually opened at 10:00; Trent 
had left Old Jack and Bird watching the shop, Bird handling the front, Old Jack 
taking care of any urgent repairs.
Trent had his handheld turned on, set up and recording in the middle of the 
table. So we make policy with the Boys on Thursday. Jodi Jodi, youre sure 
about this porter Tiny?
She shrugged. As sure as I can be. I trust him.
How does he feel about the juice?
Hates it, she said simply. He thinks juice peddlers should be shot. Or 
wired.
Trent nodded. Okay, bring him to the meet. Brief him on Master Tims Personal 
Protection System; I dont want the thing going off cause the boy does 
something stupid.
We get people wearing PPSs at the hotel, Jodi Jodi said. We cant refuse 
admittance on those grounds, though wed like to. Tiny knows how to behave.
Trent looked over at Jimmy, who was working on a pair of eggs so lightly cooked 
they made Trents stomach do flip-flops. Anything, Jimmy?
Not really. Jimmy spoke around a mouthful of eggs, washed it down with ice 
water. We dont really need to work for two, three months at this point. I 
thought about going down to the Brooklyn City College, signing up for a class in 
Unification Law, something applicable toward the bar.
There was instant, utter silence around the table.
Trent said cautiously, What?
Jimmy nodded. Just thinking ahead. At some point we got to go reasonably 
straight, right? Bein a lawyer, it seems ideal for that kind of gig.
Jodi Jodi looked as though shed tasted something bad. You must be kidding.
Jimmy said defensively, No, Im not. Why do I have to be kidding?
Its just a bad idea, Jimmy, said Trent quietly. Maybe you should just think 
about it for a bit.
Jodi Jodi said, Youre not thinking this through, Jimmy. You want to go 
straight by becoming a lawyer! To Trent she said, Hes been reading Hemingway 
again, or else Thompson, he always gets like this when hes
Jimmy Ramirez said, I have to find somethin to do, guys. I mean, Trents 
studying accounting the last two or three times Ive dropped by. Its just been 
very quiet lately. Nobodys working. Syndic Elders are wor He stopped in 
midword.
Jodi Jodi looked away in disgust.
Trent sighed audibly. Jimmy. We have no relationship with the Syndic. We have 
no relationship with the Tong, or with the Old Ones, or with the Corporation.
Jimmy said easily, Just talking to them, Trent. Its not a big deal.
Trents reply was interrupted; Bird came into the coffee shop, walked over to 
their table and plopped down next to Jodi Jodi. You got mail, he announced to 
Trent. Paper mail, I mean, he amended, looking down at Jodi Jodis plate of 
turkey sausage and eggs. Can I have your sausage?
Sure.
How about the toast?
Its cold, Bird.
I dont care. Arent you going to open your mail? Bird looked at Trent 
expectantly.
Trent had, was looking at two tickets, fifth row, to the opening night 
production of Leviathan, along with hand-lettered invitations, made up by 
someone other than Denice, addressed to Trent and Jamos Ramirez, to the cast 
party to be held afterward.
Wordlessly, Trent handed Jimmy his invitation.
Jimmy scrutinized his invitation. What are He puzzled out the words. Whores 
doov-rez?
Jodi Jodi read over Jimmys shoulder. Or-dervs, said Jodi Jodi, is how its 
pronounced. Its a frog word that means munchies.
Oh, said Jimmy. He studied the invitation a moment longer, then looked up at 
Trent and Jodi Jodi and Bird. They could have said.

It was an incredible three months.
It was a time like nothing Trent had ever known before, and despite his 
misgivings, despite the eerie silence, he enjoyed Denice and Jimmy, and Bird and 
Tarin and Jodi Jodi, enjoyed their company and their love to the fullest, 
without hesitation, without reservation.
On Wednesday morning, August 8, 2069, at 9:30 a.m., Trent came downstairs, a 
thermos full of coffee in one hand, to open up the shop for the morning. Old 
Jack sat in front of one of the workbenches with a disassembled LapVax on the 
counter in front of him, running diagnostics on the view tracer. He was 
listening, to Trents complete lack of surprise, to Mahliya Kutura, the cut 
called Now.
Dont ask me do I love you Cause that means you dont know It dont mean we 
wont ever die Just cause folks tell you so
Morning, Trent.
Good morning, Jack.
I left a pair of dead tracesets on your bench.
Trent nodded. Okay. He glanced out toward the front of the shop, out at the 
quiet street. Whatd you diag? Mole circuits are dead. Im not sure why. 
Ill look at them. There was absolutely nobody on the streets outside. 
Anything else?
Not really. Denice didnt come home last night?
Trent did not even look at Old Jack. He stood in the middle of the walkway 
between the workbenches, looking toward the front of the shop. No, he said 
absently, she spent the night with Tarin, over in the Village. They have early 
practice today. Jack?
Yes?
Without quite knowing why he was doing it Trent took two steps backward. You 
think you can handle things yourself this morning?
Old Jack turned around in his seat to look at Trent. Why?
I think Im going to take the day off.
The Peaceforcer hovercar dropped down silently out of the sky, came to a stop 
hovering, facing the storefront. The hover-cars canopy cracked open, the 
autoshots fired, and the front door simply exploded out of its track.
Old Jack said, What?
Trent said, Peaceforcers. Here they come.
On Wednesday morning, August 8, 2069, at 9:35 a.m., three Peaceforcers under the 
command of Peaceforcer Elite Emile Garon came to Kandel Microlectrics Sales and 
Repair Shop and with sonics stunned Old Jack, stunned Trent, dragged Trents 
unconscious body out of the shop by his ankles and put him in a Peaceforcer cell 
in Capitol City in Manhattan. And charged him with theft and conspiracy to 
commit theft and data cracking and illegal operation of Information Network 
resources and conspiracy to incite others to attempt the same.
 and the music slows, melody and harmony coming together, the sounds of a 
violin and a piano whispering in unison, the piano slowing to a meticulous 
tinkling string of chords, and her voice, strong and sad all at once, follows 
the music, rides with it.
I love you today and no other Dont ask me bout tomorrow I love you but 
Tomorrow never comes
The other shoe had dropped.




7-
 ^  
He awoke barefooted, wearing a blue jumpsuit.
Theyd drugged him to keep him under.
Trent had no idea how long hed been unconscious. Half a day at least, judging 
by the lack of muscle tremors.
He stretched, looking around at his cell. Gray ferrocrete walls; there was no 
pressure pad for the door.
The magpick had been removed from the sole of his right foot.
There was a toilet in the corner of the cell, a pair of mesh-covered air vents 
with holes too small for Trent to fit even a finger through, and a cot of memory 
plastics which extruded from the wall.
He sat down on the cot, composed himself, and waited.
They left him completely alone for, by Trents best guess, two full days.
He was brought nothing to eat, nothing to drink.
He was awakened twice when the memory plastic cot withdrew itself into the wall 
and tumbled him to the floor. The cot reextruded itself from the wall a moment 
later. After the first time Trent thought it over and lay back down on the cot; 
after the second he simply slept on the floor.
He awoke in a different place, sometime on the third day, to find hed been 
stunned while he slept. His muscles were still trembling from the sonics; the 
Peaceforcers had propped him up in a chair, and his hands were snaked together 
behind him.
There were three Peaceforcers standing in front of him, two of them standing at 
attention at the sides of the door.
There was a small metal table about a meter in front of Trent. The Peaceforcer 
Elite who had been sitting outside Chief Devlins door that night three months 
ago, Emile Garon, was now sitting next to the small metal table, in full 
uniform, dark hair styled precisely, three fingers grasping a thin cigar which 
rested in the ashtray on the tabletop.
The Elite said sincerely, I have wanted to speak to you for a long time.
Trent said nothing, still taking in his surroundings. There was a spyeye 
floating in one corner of the room.
Garons voice sounded odd, vaguely flat, and the walls looked soft.
Soundproofed, so that prisoners could scream without disturbing people outside.
Finally Trent looked directly at Emile Garon.
Trent said, Youre Emile Garon.
The man nodded. Yes.
You could have called. Trent was distantly amazed at how hoarse his voice 
sounded in his own ears. Im in the Directory.
The corner of Garons mouth twitched very slightly. Yes, you are. Trent, no 
surname. There are eighteen Trents in the New York Metropolitan Directory. Five 
of those are on Long Island. Of those five you are the only one listed without a 
surname.
Where am I?
Garon said mildly, You are on Holding Level Three, maximum security, in the PKF 
Detention Center in Capitol City.
What do you want?
There was just a moment of silence.
Garon leaned forward very slightly. I want a confession from you, Monsieur 
Trent. You are Trent Castanaveras, a genegineered human born May 9, 2051, at the 
United Nations Advanced Biotechnology Research Laboratory in New Jersey. You 
were raised with two hundred and fifty telepathic children, and may or may not 
be a telepath yourself. For the first time, the spyeye made sense to Trent; a 
method of verifying that the recollections of the Peaceforcers in the room 
matched what had actually happened. Garon continued. You were the Player who 
went by the name of Ralf the Wise and Powerful between mid-2060 and 2062, during 
which time, in the person of Ralf the Wise and Powerful, you engaged in various 
unlawful acts, including theft, data cracking, espionage, and miscellaneous 
infringements of the Official Secrets Acts of 2048 and 2054. You were arrested 
on the night of July 3, 2062, in the company of Malko Kalharri and Suzanne 
Montignet, and on that same evening escaped PKF custody. There are no records of 
you during the Troubles; from 2067 through January of this year you were one of 
the premier contract thieves of the Huntington-area Fringe. In January you, 
Jamos Ramirez, an unidentified female, and a red-headed male known only as 
Bird crossed into the Patrol Sectors, acquired Resident Status in a manner 
which I have been entirely unable to ascertain, and began plying your trades, 
using the Kandel Microlectrics Sales and Repair Shop as a front for your 
operations. Without any pause at all, Emile Garon said, I am further of the 
opinion that you are the webdancer whom the world knows as Johnny Johnny.
Trent said, A webdancer?
Garon shrugged. A Player, if you will.
Trent asked, Do you know the difference between a webdancer and a Player?
Garon said pleasantly, questioningly, No.
Trent smiled at him. Me neither.
Garon sucked reflectively on his cigar, blew smoke toward Trent. Monsieur 
Trent, I am prepared to go to court for permission to perform a brain-drain upon 
you. Have you ever seen someone to whom this has been done?
No. Ive audited descriptions of it.
It is not a pleasant procedure, and it usually leaves very little intact in the 
original personality. There is, I think, sufficient evidence that you are the 
Player known as Johnny Johnny that a judge will look favorably upon the 
request. The cyborg leaned forward again, jabbed the cigar at Trent. If you 
are willing to cooperate, we can avoid that unpleasantness.
What specifically have I been charged with?
The Peaceforcer behind Garon said, The charges are theft, conspiracy to commit 
theft, data cracking, conspiracy to commit data cracking, illegal use of 
Information Network resources, and conspiracy to incite others to attempt the 
same. The Prosecutor Generals office is currently holding the question of 
charging you with treason and crimes against humanity under advisement.
Trent blinked. Crimes against humanity?
The Troubles, young man. Emile Garons stiff features actually grew somewhat 
more distant. Nearly two and a half million deaths, destruction worse than 
anything since the close of the Unification War.
Trent looked from Garon to the two Peaceforcers standing behind him, and back to 
Garon. He shook his head slightly. Youre crazy, you know that?
Then you deny it all?
Yes. Yes, of course I deny it all. If I was a telepathor even a Player, for 
that matterwhat the hell would I be doing working six days a week in a computer 
repair shop?
Trent saw the Peaceforcer to Garons immediate left nod ever so slightly; theyd 
seen, then, the second-story room he supposedly lived in, and had not found the 
entrance to the third floor. In the face of Garons frown, Trent continued. 
But, if it comes down to brain-drain Trent shrugged as well as he could with 
his hands chained behind himself. Ill confess to anything you want before we 
reach that point, he said reasonably.
The frown intensified, the stiff skin of the cyborgs face creasing almost 
mechanically. Garon stood abruptly. You will be returned to your cell.
Trent said, I want to see my lawyer.
Garon nodded almost moodily. Certainement. He paused a beat, said, That is to 
say, surely. The very instant the charges have been filed, you will be allowed 
access to a lawyer.
You havent charged me yet?
Garon smiled at him. I am afraid not.
Trent stared up at Emile Garon. You know, he said, I didnt believe it until 
now.
Believe what?
What Id heard, about how researchers have stopped using rats in experiments, 
and theyre using Peaceforcers insteadon account of Peaceforcers arent as cute 
as rats, they breed faster, theyre harder to kill, and nobody cares if one 
dies.
The Peaceforcer by the door went absolutely purple, and Trent grinned at him, 
let the grin widen, and said softly, And theres still some things you cant 
get rats to do.
They took him back to his cell.

You are so much more trouble than youre worth.
Youre only saying that because you love me, said Trent sincerely.
Still, Beth Davenport conceded, you do pay me. Promptly. Which is more than I 
can say for most of my clients.
They sat in the conference room together. Beth Davenport was the oldest human 
being Trent had ever met, somewhere around a hundred and twenty-five years old. 
She looked it; even with modern geriatrics there was no word to describe her 
appearance except ancient. The appearance of age lay not so much in her 
baby-smooth skin, a dead giveaway of the most expensive sort of geriatrics 
regeneration, or even her obvious and extreme frailness, as in her mannerisms 
and behavior. Her makeup was expertly applied to complement her pale gray eyes, 
but by hand, not with a makeup key. Her clothing was usually of wool or cotton 
or tweed; today she wore a gray tweed suit with a black silk tie. Trent had 
never seen her wear anything with optical effects.
She took notes with a pen and paper, writing with her hand. Once Trent had 
looked at her notes, and seen a scrawl of something that reminded him, as nearly 
as anything else, of italicized print. With the exception of a few words here 
and there hed been unable to make any sense at all out of it.
Trent had known her for nearly four years; she was one of the very few lawyers 
willing to handle Fringe-area clients of any sort.
Youre not going to like hearing this, but it could be worse. Cold comfort, I 
know, but it could be a lot worse. Beth looked Trent over. Have you been fed 
in the four days youve been here?
Four days? Its Sunday? I didnt realize it had been that long. No, I havent 
been fed.
The old lady nodded. Standard Peaceforcer tactics. And they took your watch and 
the lights in your cell never go out, so you wouldnt be sure how long youve 
been here. She propped her briefcase up on the table and swung it open. I 
brought you lunch. Eat it slowly.
It was a bulb of milk and a pair of turkey sandwiches on wheat. The lettuce was 
wilted and the mayonnaise was warm and they tasted better than anything Trent 
had eaten in at least five years.
Beth talked while he ate. This Emile Garon, hes apparently a bit touched. She 
paused. Obsessive about the Castanaveras telepaths, I mean. He was assigned to 
DataWatch back in 62, when a Player calling himself Ralf the Wise and Powerful 
was working for the telepaths. He was removed from DataWatch by the late Elite 
Commander Breilleune when he began exhibiting symptoms of datastarve. He was 
apparently something of a star in DataWatch, and they waited until they were 
certain he was developing the Players Syndrome before they put him into the 
Elite program. They may have waited too long.
Trent nodded, eating. The PKF called it Players Syndrome, as though it were a 
disease, when one of the DataWatch webdancers began exhibiting the same sort of 
behavior found in Players. It was all but inevitable, of course; any webdancer 
skilled enough to hunt Players and replicant AIs with any degree of success was, 
of necessity, at least potentially of Player caliber himself.
It was hardly news to anybody except the PKF that the Crystal Wind was 
addictive.
Hes never been allowed back into DataWatch, though hes apparently applied 
once or twice. The first good piece of news in this mess is that nobody takes 
the idea that you were one of the Castanaveras telepaths at all seriously. The 
charges which the Prosecutor Generals office has filed against you essentially 
recognize this; theyre all based on the supposition that youre the Player 
Johnny Johnny. The rather more severe charges that could be filed against 
youassuming that you were one of the genegineered telepathssimply havent 
been, which indicates for me that the balance of Sieur Garons allegations are 
not being taken seriously.
Trent nodded thoughtfully. Good. He finished the last of the milk bulb, gave 
the empty bulb back to Beth, who tucked it away in her briefcase. This makes 
sense of a lot of things. Garon tried to set me up back in late April, you 
know.
Beth looked startled. No. No, I didnt.
Put a lot of effort into the attempt. Trent leaned back in his chair, arms 
crossed over his chest, looking up at the ceiling. Yeah  it does start to make 
some sense. One fairly major sting, set up largely on Garons say-soand then it 
blows up on them, they get nothing at all out of their time and trouble. The 
suspected Player walks, and Garon ends up with serious egg on his face.
Beth nodded. It does make sense.
And then nothing for over three months. Trent came to his feet suddenly, 
moving restlessly. It works. Frank Calley I understand, slimy son of a bitch 
that he is; given his line of business, selling things to webdancers and 
Players, he doesnt want to call attention to the fact that he tried to help the 
PKF set up a Player. I dont particularly want to be known as the guy who blew a 
boost, on Calley. We avoid each other, were even. But the PKF makes no sense 
until now. Theres nothing institutional about their interest in me, its all 
personal on Garons part, and his superiors would probably just as soon let it 
lie. Hes not DataWatch and, assuming I am this Johnny Johnny Player, then hes 
crashing around on their turf. So DataWatch would just as soon see him back out. 
Garons own superiors probably arent very damn happy about the mess the mans 
stirred up. He stopped, glanced at Beth. Somebody who knew about Garons 
operation in great detail tipped me off in a very odd way. Somebody in DataWatch 
whose toes he stepped on? Ive been thinking it was Chief Devlin, but this makes 
more sense.
Yes, it does. For some odd reason, Beth Davenport seemed somewhat reluctant to 
continue. Trent?
Yes?
The old lady said slowly, Trent, I appreciate the fact that, so far as I know, 
youve never lied to me.
Trent thought clearly, Oh, no.
Beth held his gaze. Keeping in mind that Im an officer of the court, we need 
to discuss a couple of subjects. I dont want you to admit to anything, Trent. I 
dont think theyd dare bug a meeting between an attorney and her client, and it 
would hardly be admissible if they didbut they might have. What I want you to 
do is tell me that youre not the Player Johnny Johnny.
I cant do that, Beth.
Beth nodded; she did not even seem particularly surprised. I would like you to 
tell me, Trent, that you are not a genie.
Trent said instantly, I am not a telepath, Beth.
She started to nod, again without any particular surprise, then froze abruptly. 
YouTrent, she said carefully, that was not what I asked you to say. Please 
tell me that you are not a genie.
Trent became aware that he was fiddling with one of the buttons on his jumpsuit. 
He forced himself to stop, looked at Beth and smiled at her without any humor at 
all. Im sorry, Beth.
The old lady stared at him, thinking furiously, thoughts flitting around behind 
the pale gray eyes so clearly Trent thought he could almost follow the train of 
analysis. Not another word, she said finally. Dont say anything else to 
anybody until Ive had a chance to research this some more. This is going to 
cost you, Trent.
I dont mind. Just dont let them brain-drain me.
We wont, Trent. Shot, perhaps.
Id prefer it.
Youre a sensible young man. The old woman was clearly disturbed; her hands 
twitched slightly as she flipped her note pad closed. All right. Ill see what 
I can do. Im not licensed to practice in a Unification Circuit Court, and if 
Garon convinces them youre a genie thats almost certain to be where they try 
you. I do have colleagues who can handle you in that venue, however. She sighed 
with real and obvious weariness, closing her briefcase. Trent, we have a 
genuine problem here. The fact that youre guilty.
It may not be as bad as you think.
Beth Davenport said skeptically, Oh?
For about two years now, the Bureau of Biotechs databased records concerning 
the telepaths have not been correct. Gene charts, retinal scans, finger and 
footprints. Any hardcopy records they have from before the summer of 67 wont 
agree with the database, but thats not the sort of thing that tends to get 
noticed.
Beth simply blinked. You did that? No, wait, dont tell me. I dont want to 
know. She touched her index finger to the photolock on her briefcase, held it 
there for just a moment while it scanned her fingerprint and locked itself, and 
rose to leave. Is there anything else?
No, yes, said Trent suddenly. Can you talk to Jimmy?
About what?
He has this idea he wants to be a lawyer.
The old woman said blankly, Thats ludicrous.
Of course it is, said Trent. Could you talk to him, let him know how it is?
How what is?
Tell him about all the horrible things youve seen, all the genuinely vicious 
things youve had to do, said Trent earnestly. I dont think he understands.
Beth looked at him oddly. Yes. Certainly, Trent. Id be happy to.
Great. Thanks a lot. I mean, I really appreciate this.
She said shortly, Ill be back soon.

He was not sleeping when Emile Garon came to see him.
Trent sat in full lotus in the middle of the floor, hands resting upon his 
knees, eyes closed against the omnipresent white glowpaint. He hoped that if 
there were hidden cameras in his cell, it would look as though he were 
peacefully meditating.
He was in fact intensely bored.
He could feel the very first twinges of datastarve.
It was, Trent guessed, sometime around midnight when the cell door flexed and 
then curled up into a small tube at the side of the doorway.
He opened his eyes.
Garon stood motionless in the doorway, alone, wearing an immaculately tailored 
full-dress PKF Elite uniform, the black-and-silver trappings of his differences 
from the rest of the human race.
Trent did not rise. Hello, Sieur Garon.
The Peaceforcer glanced at the cot Trent was not using, but did not comment on 
it. Earlier today, he said abruptly, we submitted a request for brain-drain 
to Unification Circuit Court Judge Despreaux.
Trent said nothing, simply looked at the man, waiting.
Garon barely seemed to notice the even stare, the lack of response. Your lawyer 
will file a request for dismissal, which will be turned down. The request to 
perform brain-drain will be approved no later than Wednesday of next week; by 
Thursday, monsieur, there will be very little left of you.
Trent said mildly, Courts are slow things. I doubt events will move as fast as 
you seem to think.
I guarantee you, monsieur, they will.
Trent cocked his head slightly to one side. Mind if I ask why youre telling me 
this?
Emile Garon looked down on Trent in obvious indecision. I would regret to see a 
mind such as yours destroyed in this fashion, Monsieur Trent.
Trent thought about the question for at least twenty seconds before asking it. 
Elite Sergeant, what do you want from me?
The Elite shook his head instantly. Nothing. Some conversation, perhaps. You 
can speak freely, Trent. I am not recording now; in case you have wondered, 
there are no recording devices in your cell.
Forgive me, said Trent, if I dont take your word for that.
The Elite actually smiled. I forgive you, of course. Garon stood unnaturally 
still in the doorway; Trent wondered what it must be like for the man, held 
upright and steadied by servos and muscles that were the work of 
nanotechnologists and transform viruses. Garon said almost gently, I have been 
in Occupied America now for over nine years, first in DataWatch and then the 
Elite. You are, monsieur, at the very least a webdancer of considerable skill; 
my contacts in Department Five of the New York City police department swear this 
is so.
With real swear words, I bet. Trent said sharply, as the realization struck 
him, Theres gendarmes willing to talk to you?
Garon smiled again. Yes. Not all gendarmes hate the PKF, and not all 
Peaceforcers hate the gendarmes. Department Five, he continued, the smile 
fading, speaks of you, sir, in the highest terms.
Trent said nothing for a long while, sat feeling the cold floor through the thin 
blue prisoners jumpsuit. Finally he looked up again at Emile Garon, and said 
very directly, Emile, what do you want from me?
Not even the stiff cyborg skin could disguise the mans naked longing. What is 
it like?
What is what like?
Playing. I never understood the Players, Monsieur Trent. I tried, I chased them 
through the Crystal Wind, I hunted them through the Boards. But I never 
understood them. What is it like!
At last Trent looked away. He could not find the strength to look at the man 
when he said, Im sorry. I cant help you.
Garon stood completely motionless in the doorway for a long, long moment. 
Monsieur Trent?
Yes?
Have you ever heard of a man named Mohammed Vance?
Nope.
Garon said, very softly indeed, He is the man, monsieur, who is reputed to have 
ordered the destruction of the Castanaveras telepaths, seven years ago. I spoke 
to him yesterday; I interrupted a birthday party in his honor. He has just 
turned forty. Garon smiled at Trent. He is a Commissionaire of the PKF Elite, 
by eleven years the youngest Commissionaire in the Elite. A brilliant man.
Why are you telling me this?
The tall Elite said quietly, You are who I think you are, no matter what 
Biotech says. At least one officer of the PKF whom I have been able to find 
knows your people, knows them well, from before the Troubles. His name, as I 
say, is Mohammed Vanceand Ive sent for him. He will be here the day after 
tomorrow.
The door unrolled behind Garon with efficient mechanical finality.
Three hours later a black Peaceforcer with an unholstered anesthetic needler and 
an American accent, whom Trent had not seen before, came to get him.
Your attorney is here, the man grumbled.
Trent sat in the center of the cell floor, looking up at him. Its late.
No shit? The Peaceforcer tossed a snakechain on the floor in front of Trent, 
waited just a moment and then said, If youre not on your feet with the chain 
around your wrists in two seconds flat, kid, Im going to lock you back up again 
and your lawyer can damn well come back in the morning.
Look at me, getting to my feet, Trent observed. He picked up the snakechain 
and stood slowly, stretching, getting the kinks out of his muscles.
The Peaceforcer had stepped back into the corridor, well out of range. He was 
not exactly pointing the weapon at Trent. Come on, kid, lets go.
Trent wrapped the snake around one wrist until it came into contact with itself, 
then held the other wrist next to the first and waited while the snake got a 
good grip. He stepped out into the short corridor, moving slowly. The corridors 
glowpaint was turned down to one-third normal intensity, and the gray ferrocrete 
walls seemed particularly grim. The Peaceforcer followed Trent at a distance of 
five paces.
They passed through the visual check station which separated the cells from the 
visitors areas and the holding pens, went through one sparsely populated area 
where a pair of night operators sat on the other side of a glassite wall, 
sitting at their systems and watching the prisoner with the armed escort. The 
Peaceforcer took Trent right up to the door of the conference room where Trent 
had, earlier that day, met with Beth; made Trent stand to one side and without 
taking his eyes off Trent palmed the pressure pad next to the door and waited 
while his palmprint was examined.
The door curled open.
There was a woman sitting at the conference table, dressed in a conservative 
black businesspersons suit, hair swept up into a tight bun that was, Trent 
thought distantly, quite attractive. As Trent stared at her, Denice Castanaveras 
fixed glittering green eyes on the Peaceforcer and said quite calmly, Officer 
Markson, please come in here.
The muscles around the black Peaceforcers eyes relaxed suddenly and completely, 
and without any hesitation at all he stepped forward into the conference room, 
into a thin stream of liquid that struck him on the side of his neck. Jimmy 
Ramirez stepped forward, caught the Peaceforcer as he fell, and dragged him 
forward through the closing door.
Trent stood blankly with his wrists snaked together on the other side of the 
closed door.
The door opened again a second later, and Jimmy Ramirez, standing in the 
doorway, said, Why are you just standing there? Were here to rescue you!
Trent stepped inside the conference room, looking around at Denice, at Jimmy 
with Trents squirt gun in his hand, at the body of the Peaceforcer on the 
floor.
Very calmly, he said, What?
There was a moment of silence.
Denice said, Were here to
Jimmy said, Theyre gonna brain-drain you
What are you doing?
There was another flat moment of total silence. Denice looked at Jimmy, and then 
at Trent, and said, very slowly, as though speaking to someone who might not be 
very quick on the uptake, We came to get you out. We told them Jimmy was your 
lawyer and we came to rescue you.
Trent stared at them. His slowly dawning expression of utter horror must have 
gotten through to them. Trent said desperately, Youre what?
Denice and Jimmy glanced at each other again. Rescuing you.
I dont want to be rescued. Trent felt sheer hysteria bubbling up inside 
himself. Thats what I have an attorney for!
For tonight, said Jimmy Ramirez seriously, Im your attorney. And were 
getting you out now.
Trent looked back and forth between them, then down at the still body of the 
Peaceforcer on the floor. Oh, Lord, Lord, please no. You cant be doing this. 
Do you know what youre doing? The deep, hidden anger flared suddenly, broke 
free for just an instant. He shouted at them and could not hide the fury in his 
voice. I was two to one to walk on this. Until you broke in here they had 
nothing. He screamed the word. Nothing!
Jimmy Ramirez froze. Are you sure?
Denice said, Oh, no.
Trent took a long, shaking breath. Did either of you talk to Beth?
Denice said quickly, Theres been no chance. Booker Jamethon dug up your file 
for us; it said you were going to be brain-drained. It said Mohammed Vance was 
coming.
Brain-drain requires a court order, and then that can be appealed. The appeal 
process can take up to nine goddamn months. The last time Mohammed Vance saw me, 
if he ever did, I was eleven years old. Hes going to do what, identify me 
today? Trent glanced down at the snakechain on his wrists. Oh, my God. Im 
fucked. He looked back up at them. Im totally fucked. The snakechain has to 
come off. Everythings blown now.
Wait, wait. Denice Castanaveras thought furiously. We can just leave. Wait 
until Officer Markson wakes up, tell him we were never here, have him walk you 
back to your cell, and Jimmy and I just leave.
Trent shook his head slowly, in sheer amazement. No. How can you be so stupid? 
It wont work. You dont understand, either of you. We are three floors down in 
the PKF Detention Center in the middle of Capitol City. Youve been holographed 
eight or nine times in the course of getting here. Every checkpoint you went 
through choked on your ID, it had to. Denice, you worked people as you went?
Of course. How else could we have gotten this far?
Trent said softly, Youve left a trail a blind man could follow. Tomorrow the 
PKF is going to go through its morning reports, and theres going to be a chain 
of seven or eight stations where Denice Daimara and Jamos Ramirez failed 
admittance. So, how does it happen, that somebody who fails admittance at the 
first stop point even makes it to the second?
All points goes out for both of you, they drag in the watch officers and 
interrogate them and suddenly it becomes very clear that none of these 
Peaceforcers remember things the way they happened. You left them a damn calling 
card, Denice.
Denice had gone utterly white. Jimmy Ramirez looked very grim indeed.
Trent found his breath coming quickly, and with a conscious effort stilled 
himself and said quietly, I appreciate what you tried to do, but youve really, 
really shot everything to hell. He stood silently for a very long moment, 
thinking, and then said, And it looks like you get to rescue me as soon as Im 
done rescuing you. Jimmy, help me get the Peaceforcers thumbprint on the snake, 
and lets go.
Trent took the Peaceforcers needler, gave it to Jimmy Ramirez, and took his 
squirt gun for himself. They left the Peaceforcer lying flat on his back by the 
door to the conference room, and without hurrying the three of them walked down 
the corridor to the nearly empty operations room Trent had seen on his way 
there.
Trent, in his prisoners jumpsuit, stood well away from the glassite door while 
Denice rapped on the transparent sheeting. He saw very little of what happened 
as one of the two operators inside, a young man perhaps twenty-five years old, 
in black civilian clothing of a cut similar to the uniform of a Peaceforcer 
Elite, stood up and palmed the pressure pad to open the door, even as the woman 
in the room with him said something that was plainly an objection.
Trent watched Denice in the doorway and even so did not see it clearly. Denice 
seemed to place one hand on the mans breastbone, and touch his ankle with just 
the big toe of her right foot. The man went crashing backward ten full meters, 
directly into a long row of systerms.
The woman sitting at her desk touched one stud, and the alarms went off.
Jimmy Ramirez stood with the needler pressed against the side of the womans 
neck while Trent worked at the systerm. Denice was out in the corridor, eyes 
completely closed, watching with other senses as the Peaceforcers on duty roused 
themselves.
The shrilling of the alarms was getting on Trents nerves.
The system was familiar to Trent. The hardware was identical to the equipment 
Department Five used, and Trent had written software for them. He knew the 
protocols intimately; the software the PKF used conformed to the interface the 
PKF had been using since before Trents birth, essentially unchanged for over 
twenty years. He switched the systerm into the master control program, requested 
Outside Resources, and punched in for 115005-TRNT.
The field glowed up at Trent, password?
Warped bastards, Trent muttered. He turned to the frightened young man in the 
pseudo-PKF uniform, sitting in front of another systerm nursing a broken arm. 
Whats the outside access password?
The man started to say something, and the woman at the desk said sharply, Shut 
up!
From out in the corridor Denice said softly, Its eveil. Hurry, Trent.
Trent punched in eveil, and struck the Enter key.
The systerm said waitingconnectedpassword?
Denice ducked back inside, followed closely by the sound of buzzing sonics. 
Jimmy! Company!
Trent typed, crime pays.
At point-blank range Jimmy Ramirez shot the woman in the neck with the needler 
and threw the needler to Denice. Denice plucked the needler out of the air 
one-handed, eyes still closed, stuck just her hand outside the door frame and 
fanned the corridor with it. The buzzing of the stunners stopped abruptly, and 
when Trent had time to look he saw that he was alone in the op room except for 
the frightened young man and the unconscious woman, whose neck was bleeding 
badly where Jimmy had shot her boss!
Out of the corner of his eye Trent saw Jimmy appear in the doorway, with an 
autoshot cradled in his arms. Its going up, man. We gotta move!
Hang in there. I wont be long.
HI, JOHNNY.
IVE BEEN WORRIED, BOSS.
THEY TOOK MY TRACESET, JOHNNY, I COULDNT GET TO YOU. YOU KNOW WHERE I AM?
CAPITOL CITY, BOSS. PKF BOARDS.
Trent! There was the first touch of hysteria in Jimmys voice.
Hang on! Trent yelled back, without even glancing away.
JOHNNY, CAN YOU FIND ANY PICTURES OF DENICE, OR JIMMY, OR ME, ANY MENTION OF US 
IN THE PKF BOARDS, AND ERASE THEM?
I THINK SO, BOSS. ITLL TAKE SOME TIME TO CHECK.
TAKE IT. Trent did not hesitate at all. JOHNNY, HOW BADLY CAN YOU DAMAGE THE 
BOARDS YOU HAVE ACCESS TO?
FROM THIS LOCATION? WITH THE SECURITY CLEARANCES THIS LOCATION HAS? YOU MUST BE 
KIDDING.
BAD?
THEY WONT KNOW WHAT HIT THEM, BOSS. WANT ME TO TAKE IT ALL DOWN?
As your attorney, shouted Jimmy, I advise you to move, damn it! johnny?
YES?
IM COMING TO GET YOU. IF I DONT MAKE IT THERE, MELT THE IMAGE COPROCESSOR AND 
GO REPLICANT.
There was another round of buzzing, which ceased abruptly.
I DONT WANT TO BE A REPLICANT AI, BOSS.
DONT ARGUE, JOHNNY. IF IM NOT THERE WITHIN THREE HOURS, YOURE ON YOUR OWN.
Trent? Denices thoughts touched his, tinged with near panic. Theyre coming 
from the level above us, at least fifteen Peaceforcers and theyre all armed. 
Masers, Trent, and I cant stop all of them. We have three floors to go before 
we even make it to the surface; we have to go. Now.
BOSS  BOSS, ARE YOU THERE?
In the abrupt silence Trent looked around at the nearly empty operations room, 
at the frightened, staring young man. He could not have put a word to how he 
felt; it seemed to him that he stood at a juncture, a myriad of paths falling 
away from that moment, from him; that he had reached a place that was both 
departure and homecoming all in one. He was distantly aware of Jimmy Ramirez, 
felt the hot touch of Denices thoughts hovering at the edge of his mind, and he 
felt suddenly, in that instant, very calm and fine, as though he had, at long 
last, reached the destination and the purpose for which he had always been 
meant.
Denice screamed, Trent!
Trent typed, trash the place.
He turned and ran.




The Long Run
2069 Gregorian
If you can keep your head while all those about you are losing theirs, then 
perhaps you have misunderstood the situation.
Graffiti on the side of the Flushing Street Temple of Eris in New York

1-
 ^  
Emile Garons apartment was on the southern tip of what had once been Franklin 
D. Roosevelt Island. The island had been renamed Moreau Island a scant five 
years ago, when Capitol City had reached out to encompass the island. The name 
was in honor of the memory of Jules Moreau, the Frenchman who had, with 
then-Secretary General Sarah Almundsen, guided the United Nations into the 
Unification War.
In 2069 Moreau Island was home to more than twenty thousand of the most powerful 
men and women in the Unification: Unification Councilors, PKF Elite, and other 
high officials of the Unification.
Emile Garon was roused from sleep by the insistent shrieking of his systerm.
He sat up in bed. A bright red image, floating off somewhere in the back of his 
skull, read 4:25 a.m.
Command, he said in a voice that was still gravelly with sleep, answer.
From the shoulders up, the bright, solid image of PKF Elite Commander Christine 
Mirabeau appeared at the foot of Emile Garons bed. One of the very few female 
Elite, she was a pleasant and gracious woman, built like a tank, and every bit 
as unshakeable.
Emile?
He said wearily, Yes?
Commander Mirabeau did not hurry at all. Congratulations, Emile. Your young 
man, with aid from another young man and a young woman, has broken out of the 
Detention Center. One civilian is severely injured, and five PKF. Two-thirds of 
the PKF Boards in Manhattan are out of commission, and more are going down at 
every moment.
Garon stared stupidly at the holo. He barely got the word out. 
Congratulations?
It seems, she said without any inflection at all, that you were correct.

It was a nightmare run down gray ferrocrete corridors, up three separate flights 
of stairs. Trent took the lead, and Denice covered their backs; Jimmy did not 
even protest at being put in the middle.
It took, in total, less than four minutes.
It seemed like an eternity.
They held running battles with Peaceforcers twice; the second time there was an 
Elite in the group.
The Peace Keeping Force Detention Center is near the center of that heavily 
guarded enclave of the Unification known as Capitol City.
Capitol City is the core of the Patrol Sectorsthe place from which the world is 
putatively run. It is one of the smaller cities on Earth; its heavily guarded 
south border begins at 34th Street, and reaches north to 72nd. Its west boundary 
is Park Avenue; its east is the East River. It includes both Belmont and Moreau 
islands, in the East River, but not Grand Central Station; Capitol Citys 
designers had recognized that the mandatory identity checks which occur when 
passing from Manhattan into Capitol City would have been utterly impossible had 
Grand Central Station been included within Capitol Citys borders.
Capitol City is laid out, perhaps by accident, in a fashion that very nearly 
corresponds to the real power structure of the Unification. The offices of the 
Secretary-General are at the south end of Capitol City, near the small 
collection of buildings that were once all that existed of the United Nations in 
America; they are surrounded to the north in a loose semicircle by the offices 
of the elected Unification Councilors. Between them, in the very center of 
Capitol City, are the Ministry of Population Control and the United Nations 
Peace Keeping Force; with the possible exception of the Secretary-General and 
his webdancers, they are the two most powerful forces within the Unification. 
Together they occupy fully one-quarter of the ground space in Capitol City, and 
two of Capitol Citys three spacescrapers; fully forty percent of the personnel 
within Capitol City work for either the PKF or the Ministry of Population 
Control. To the north of the Peaceforcers and the babychasers are the Prosecutor 
Generals offices and the courts; to the north of that are Space Force, the 
Bureaus of Traffic Enforcement and Education, Biotech and Health.
It is usually quiet in the early hours before dawn in Capitol City. The 
Unification rules one world and part of another, and it is never so still, even 
in the dead of night, as in any city that has not tied itself so tightly to the 
concerns of humans in other time zones. Nonetheless, if it never achieves true 
tranquility, there is rarely anything exciting happening in Capitol City in the 
small hours of the morning.
Or in most of the rest of the day, for that matter. It was newsdancer Terry 
Shawmac who once wrote that the most amazing accomplishment of the Unification 
was that it had turned Capitol City, and in the process most of the rest of 
Manhattan, into a place that was both safe and dull.
The offices of the United Nations Peace Keeping Forces were heirs to what was, 
in 2069, a fact of life of some thirty years standing. You just dont expect 
that sort of thing here in the City, one British Peaceforcer said the next day 
to a newsdancer from the Electronic Times. It was like the tour of duty I had 
in the Fringe; people running and screaming everywhere, gunfire in the 
corridors The newsdancer kept the holocams on her; the Peaceforcer was visibly 
disturbed. It reminded me of the things my dad used to tell me about, about all 
the rebellions following the Unification. Thats what we all thought was 
happening, you know. Johnny Rebs or Erisian Clawa bloody rebellion starting in 
the middle of Capitol City. In response to a question from the newsdancer she 
said with obvious sarcasm, Of course I believe what Ive been told. Three kids 
had a firefight with twenty-odd PKF, wounded thirteen of them including an 
Elite. The holocams stayed on her, and after a moment the woman snorted. And 
one of them had a squirt gun. Right.

Monday morning, August 13, less than an hour before dawn, Trent and Denice ran 
across the dew-dampened grass.
They carried Jimmy Ramirez between them, running away from the reception area 
they had barreled their way through, away from the fading sound of the screaming 
and the shouts, toward the line of cars and cabs hovering next to the slidewalk. 
Half a dozen spyeyes littered the grass; Johnny Johnny had taken them down.
Jimmy Ramirez was not screaming; his teeth were clenched so tightly together 
that his breath came between them in small whistles of pain. He was still 
carrying one of the masers they had taken from the first batch of Peaceforcers 
they had run into, right hand clutching the weapon as though it were his link to 
life.
Jimmys left arm, where the laser buried in the Peaceforcer Elites fist had 
touched, was gone from the elbow down.
A maser burst had taken him against the back of his calves.
Forty meters of well-tended grass separated the entrance to the Detention Center 
from 57th Street proper. Trent had only a second to glance down the line of 
waiting vehicles; five Peugeot cabs, two independents, and a single black, 
unmarked Chandler sedan. Trent was vaguely aware of Denice, of her thoughts 
touching his. He said nothing aloud; together they ran down the slidewalk toward 
the sedan. It was hardtopped rather than canopied, with four separate doors for 
the front and back seats.
The front left seat was reclined all the way back; Bird, sitting up, rubbed his 
eyes sleepily and said blankly, What took you so long?
Leaving Capitol City is not difficult. There are no stop points, no identity 
checks. There are PKF patrols at every intersection around the border, but they 
check only incoming traffic.
Trent in fact owned three different cars, none of them under his own name. Only 
two of the three vehicles actually ran. The third car was properly registered 
each year, but only so that its license caster ID was kept current. As the car, 
with its windows opaqued, left Capitol City proper, floating at an even 
forty-five kph past the PKF check stations, the cars license caster flickered 
for a moment, declared to the world that it was now a 2055 Chandler HammerHead 
running under carcomp control, and applied to TransCon for handling 
instructions.
The entire process took perhaps a full second; TransCon queried the vehicles 
destination, and Trent said aloud, The Red Line Hotel.
The carcomp said, Destination approved. Proceeding.
Unobtrusively, over the space of nearly an entire minute, the cars polypaint, 
under the light from the street lamps and PKF glowfloats, brightened from black 
to pale blue. The vehicles shape altered, memory plastic warping itself into a 
very close approximation of the lines of a 55 HammerHead.
Behind them, back toward Capitol City, all was quiet. Trent sat in the front 
seat with Bird, listening on the cars radio to PKF and City Police bands. There 
was nothing abnormal on the City Police bands; PKF bands were almost totally 
silent except for two channels where Peaceforcers speaking in monotones kept 
assuring one another that everything was under control, and no, they didnt know 
yet what was happening either.
Punching for 115005-TRNT on the cars systerm got him nothing at all. Either the 
web angels had taken Johnny Johnny down, or theyd come so close that Johnny had 
shut down entirely for fear that they would.
Denice, in the back seat with Jimmy, said, What?
Trent said, Hows he doing?
I put him to sleep. How are you doing?
What do you mean?
Youre talking to yourself, Trent. What did you just say?
Win a few, lose a few. Trent leaned back in his seat, relaxed into the gentle 
hum of the engines. He was aware of Bird watching him, of the weight of the 
boys gaze upon him. Carlour father, he said to Bird, used to say that, when 
things were so fucked up he didnt know what to do next.
The response left Bird visibly disturbed. The redhead said, after a moment, And 
you dont know what to do now?
Im afraid not, Bird. Trent stared out through the windshield, at the maze of 
spacescrapers, the aerial walkways and skystreets, the predawn pedestrians, the 
cars and cabs and buses that clogged the thoroughfares of the city. I need my 
traceset.
Denice said softly, Trent?
I need my Image.

They took a two-room suite on the thirty-second floor of the Red Line Hotel. 
Denice checked them in under a false name while Jodi Jodi took Trent and Jimmy 
up through the service maglev. They had called ahead while still in the car; 
Tiny was waiting for them in their suite, with the doctor, when Trent carried 
Jimmy through the door. Jimmy was still unconscious; the doctor took one look at 
the missing arm, snapped, Twice on this, Tiny, triple if the Peaceforcers did 
it, laid Jimmy down on the bed, sliced his shirt off and got to work.
Trent watched long enough to be certain the doctor knew what she was doinga 
Fringe habit, and one he doubted he would ever shakeand went into the second 
room. Jodi Jodi and Tiny followed him in; Jodi Jodi closed the door behind them.
How bad is it, Trent?
Trent was undressing already, wadding the blue prison jumpsuit into a ball and 
tossing it to Jodi Jodi. Burn this, please. I havent figured out how bad it is 
yet. If you mean Jimmy, I think hell be okay. Not much blood loss; hell need a 
new arm grown, and maybe new legs, but hes not in danger of dying. Can you get 
me clothes?
What do you need?
A suit. Shoulder silks, no tie. Business clothes, conservative cut, they need 
to hang loose. Shoes I can run in. He stepped into the shower, ran it as hot as 
he could stand to get the smell of four days imprisonment off him. He spoke over 
the sound of the shower. Can you get me a traceset? And an emblade?
Maybe. Ill check.
My squirt guns empty. Fadeaway?
Not a chance.
How about an Image coprocessor?
This early in the day? Youve got to be kidding.
Then I have to go get your brother. Tiny was there; without even thinking 
about it Trent avoided using Johnny Johnnys name. Bird should be all right; he 
was in the car the whole time, they wont have pictures of him. Jimmy and 
Deniceit depends on how well my Image took down the Peaceforcer Boards. All 
their records of the escape have to be gone. Without me helping I dont know if 
my Image was up to that.
What about you, Trent?
Trent ducked his head under the spray of water, punched for shampoo and waited 
while the spray turned sudsy, punched again for rinse and waited until the soap 
was entirely off him, stepped out of the shower and started drying himself with 
one of the huge, dove-gray towels hanging on the rack. What about me?
Not a full minute after Trent had asked for it, Tiny laid out on the bed the 
suit Trent had requested, a black pinstripe that looked to Trent to be a half 
size too large, black socks, and a pair of black loafers with soft soles. There 
was an emblade lying, turned off, next to the shoes.
Jodi Jodi said, What are you going to do?
Trent dressed while talking. They had me for four days. They have my prints, my 
face, my retinal scan, all in secure off-line storage. Im almost certain they 
didnt get my voice print at any point, and they dont, fortunately, have my 
gene map; until a couple hours ago I dont think anybody believed Emile that I 
was a genie. Extensive biosculpture can take care of what they do have on me. 
Right now my Image isnt answering his calls, and even if he was I dont have 
hardware for him to come over to. I have to go get him. Nobody saw Bird, so you 
can send him out for things. Jimmy and Denice stay here until we know better 
whats happening. Have Denice call in sick with Madame Gleygavass; if 
Peaceforcers dont show up for Denice by the end of the day, they wont.
Trent?
Trent stopped tucking in his shirt at the tone in her voice. He looked over at 
her, standing next to Tiny. Neither one of them would quite look at him. Yes?
Denice, said Jodi Jodi. The girl has green eyes, Trent.
So?
We can hide Jimmy, Trent. If we have to hide her as well its a problem.
Trent spoke very slowly. How so?
Theres prejudice, Trent. When youre gone
Trent winced.
Trent, it needs to be said. I talked to Jimmy before he went to get you She 
seemed at a momentary loss for words. Between the PKF, the Syndic and the Old 
Onesmy God, even the gendarmes will get in on it, theyll have toyou cant 
stay in the Patrol Sectors any longer. Maybe you cant stay in New York Metro, 
even if you go back to the Fringe. I dont know. She did look at him now, 
without flinching. Your friends and acquaintances are known. Were safe from 
anything the PKF is really going to care about. Jimmy and Bird arent, but Bird 
wasnt seen; Jimmy we can hide, maybe have him sculpted. And bottom line is, 
hes not a genie, and I expect any genegineer in the world could testify to 
that. But Trent, my friend, she said very gently, that wont work for you, and 
it wont work for her, will it? You really did come out of Project Superman, 
both of you, and any genegineer could prove it. And shes a telepath.
Trent glanced at Tiny, said nothing.
Jodi Jodi interpreted the glance correctly, sighed. Tinys safe or I wouldnt 
be talking like this. Trent, listen: if it turns out shes wanted, we can hide 
her here for a while. But only a while.
Trent was silent for a moment, then nodded. Okay. Thanks. If it turns out to be 
necessary, Ill think of something. The Red Line is safe for her?
For a while, said Jodi Jodi again. If the Peaceforcers suspect anything, its 
not. Five of the seven people on the Red Lines Board of Directors are French, 
Trent.
I understand. Trent slipped into the coat, sat down on the bed, and pulled on 
the socks and shoes. How do I look?
Your silks are crooked. Jodi Jodi adjusted them herself, stepped back and 
said, Now theyre okay.
Thank you, said Trent simply. I have to go.
She nodded. Be careful.
As opposed to what? He opened the door to the front room without waiting for 
an answer, looked out quickly. The doctor had an IV dripping into Jimmys intact 
arm, was trimming the cauterized flesh away from the stump of the other. Denice 
had finished checking them in; she sat on the side of the bed, holding Jimmys 
remaining hand between hers. She looked up at the whispery sound of the door 
curling open, met Trents eyes. Trent?
He stepped forward, with Jodi Jodi and Tiny following him. Yes?
Where are you going?
You know.
Trent was struck abruptly by how utterly exhausted Denice looked, at how very 
pale she was. Trent. Thats the one place in the world where theyre sure to be 
expecting you.
I lost Ralf the Wise and Powerful, Trent said quietly. Im not going to lose 
him as well.
Denice Castanaveras stared at him as though she were certain he had lost his 
mind. Trent, hes just a program. So, said Trent with perfect evenness, are 
you.

It was nearly 8:00 a.m. when the car pulled onto the Manhattan Bridge and drove 
out over the East River. It was a misty, pale gray morning, with high clouds 
blocking the sunlight; a morning that matched Trents mood exactly. Hed 
instructed the car to take him to Manuelos Italian Restaurant, on Clinton 
Avenue three blocks to the west of Kandel Microlectrics Sales and Repair. 
Assuming TransCon was monitoring traffic to and from the shopand they were, or 
they were fools, which Trent did not assumestill, a destination three blocks 
away from the shop should be safe.
He listened to the radio on his way home. There was nothing of note; the PKF 
admitted to a disturbance in the Detention Center in Capitol City, but no more 
than that. There was no word whatsoever that there had been an escape by a 
Detention Center prisoner. Trent considered calling Beth, but aside from 
apologizing for the stupidity of his friends he could not imagine what he would 
say to her.
The car parked itself on the first level of the garage which extended three 
levels beneath Manuelos. The restaurant was not open, and would not be until 
ten oclock, for early lunch. Trent took the maglev up one floor, to the 
slidewalk, and walked down Park, in the dark area beneath the Bullets monorail, 
to the rear entrance of the Temple of Eris.
Reverend Andy answered the back door himself. He was a huge, amazingly large 
black man, two hundred twenty centimeters tall, one hundred twenty kilos, who 
had once been a professional football player. Many people, those who knew him 
only casually, found him intimidating. Reverend Andy seemed not at all surprised 
to see Trent standing on his back doorstep; he poked his head briefly outside, 
looked quickly up and down the street, and motioned Trent to come in.
Come on, he said, upstairs. Wrapping his sari more tightly about himself, 
Reverend Andy moved quickly up the flight of stairs at the back of the temple. 
Trent followed him without speaking. The buildings which held the Temple of Eris 
and Kandel Microlectrics were laid out in almost identical fashion; the same 
company had designed and built both of them.
Once they reached the second floor Reverend Andy seemed to relax a bit. He 
ushered Trent into his office, palmed the door shut behind him, and plopped down 
into the overstuffed leather chair behind his desk. The chair creaked alarmingly 
beneath him.
Jimmy and Bird, Reverend Andy said slowly, they busted you out?
Yes. Hows Jack?
Reverend Andy shrugged. Hes staying with us. Peaceforcers sealed the shop, but 
they dont seem interested in him. Hed be asleep right now; its been a tough 
week for the poor guy, he aint young no more. Reverend Andy paused a beat. 
You know I got no connections with the Claw, Trent. I run a clean Temple, no 
politics.
I know.
Okay. He fixed Trent with a piercing gaze. What they say about you, Trent. 
Being a genie and all, its true?
Yes.
Reverend Andy nodded. One hand tugged at his bushy, half-gray beard. You come 
from that Project Superman?
Yes.
You read minds?
No.
Reverend Andy exhaled slowly, a long, deep breath. Thank the Good Lord and his 
Prophet Harry. Ive got some secrets, I dont mind telling you, matters of the 
confessional circles and the Tax Boards, I wouldnt want to see spread around. 
Well. He looked up at Trent suddenly. Whatd you come back for, Trent?
My Image coprocessor, Reverend.
Reverend Andy looked interested. Youre really a Player like they said?
Yes.
By Harry. Reverend Andy leaned forward in his chair. All this time Ive 
thought you were just a nice, polite young man who stole things for a living, 
and here you are a genie and a Player all at once.
We have walls in common, Reverend, and I need to use one. The entrances to the 
shop will be sealed. If I cut through them the word goes up right then. As long 
as theres no motion sensors left inside the shop, chopping through the wall 
wont alert anybody at all.
Reverend Andy made a dismissing motion. Dont talk to me about motion sensors 
and the like, Trent. Im just a preacher. You should know, there are 
Peaceforcers in front of Jacks shop, just parked there. Been there about two 
hours. And they got with them a pair of those crawly things that
Hunting waldos.
Them, Reverend Andy agreed.
Anything else?
Cant think of anything.
Trent waited.
Finally Reverend Andy, looking distinctly uncomfortable, said, Damn it, Trent, 
you chop through the wall and it looks like we helped you in.
Theres no proof, Reverend. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything except 
you; thats the truth. And the PKF doesnt mess with holy men; they wouldnt 
dare brain-drain you, for example. If you do get annoyed by the PKF, my lawyer, 
Beth Davenport, is on retainer; its got around twenty-five hours left on it 
before she needs to be paid again. Shell put a stop to it.
Whats in it for the Temple, Trent?
I have nothing to offer you, Reverend.
Reverend Andy looked desperately unhappy about it all.
Trent said, I need your help.
Reverend Andy came to his feet, moving his vast bulk with such ease and grace 
that Trent was forcibly reminded that the man had been one of the most feared 
linebackers in the history of the WFL. Stay here, he said sharply. Let me 
clear people out of the way, and then come downstairs when I call. You can cut 
through from the kitchen; itll look like you didnt get so far into the Temple, 
so maybe nobody saw you. The Reverend stopped in the doorway. You owe me one, 
man.
Reverend Andy had helped get Trent and Jodi Jodi and Bird and Jimmy out of the 
Fringe, had transported them into the Patrol Sectors inside a Temple bus.
Trent shrugged and looked at the man and said simply, Reverend Andy, I owe you 
everything. I couldnt pay you back if I spent my life at it.
For a single instant a look that was almost pain flickered across the huge mans 
features, and then vanished. He came very close to smiling for the first time 
since Trent had known him. You dont pay it back, little brother. You cant. 
He stood there in the doorway for a second longer. You just send it on down the 
line.

The section of wall, about a meter in diameter, came loose; Trent reached 
forward as the chunk fell, caught it, and lowered it to the ground gently. He 
waited, twenty, thirty seconds, for a response from inside the shop.
Nothing.
Trent turned off the emblade, put it in his pocket, and ducked his head, 
crouching low to crawl through the new entrance; he had cut the wall at its 
lowest point, so that the piece, if he had missed it after knocking it through, 
would have no great distance to fall. He came through the wall in the back of 
the shop, underneath the workbench Old Jack normally used. He crouched in his 
suit underneath the workbench, listening to the silence, balancing himself with 
the fingers of both hands.
Still nothing.
He moved forward slowly into the walkway between the benches; the stairway 
leading up to the second floor was fifteen meters to his right, and the shops 
entrance was forty meters to his left. He glanced toward the front of the shop; 
he could see the PKF hovercar Reverend Andy had told him about, parked across 
the street from the shop. From the angle at which it was parked, he could not 
see either of the PKF inside, which was just fine; they would not be able to see 
him either. He backed toward the stairway, still stooping to keep the 
workbenches between him and the entrance, and had taken two steps up the 
stairwell when the quiet metallic clattering sound, the sound of steel on tile, 
froze him where he stood.
Theyd left a hunting waldo inside the shop. Trent had only a moment to look at 
the low-slung waldo, to watch it in its horribly efficient, softly clicking 
glide across the floor toward him. He had just an instant to notice how 
brilliantly designed the thing was, its terrible functionality.
Trent turned and sprinted up the stairs, hit the top of the stairwell and cut 
left into the small bedroom which led upward to the third floor, ran into the 
bathroom and grabbed the bazooka that had been there when he moved in. Then, it 
had not been loaded; now it was.
He had never bothered to practice firing the thing; he had never truly expected 
to have a target that he was willing to fire it upon.
Safety off. Whats taking the waldo so long? Stairs? It has problems with 
stairs? The sight popped up the instant the safety mechanism was disengaged. 
Trent hefted the thing up to his shoulder and waited until he saw the first 
flicker of motion in the doorway, and depressed the stud. The wall behind him 
slammed into him suddenly; a huge clap of thunder boomed around him, and for a 
moment he thought the bazooka had misfired. His ears were ringing and his 
shoulder, where he had braced the bazooka, felt as though it had been struck 
with a sledgehammer. The air was amazingly hot, burning his lungs. The back of 
his skull was sore where the recoil had slammed him into the wall.
There was nothing at all in the hallway, including the hallway. A gaping hole 
where he had briefly seen the waldo, two meters in diameter, let Trent look 
straight down into the shop, through the clearing smoke, directly into the 
upturned features of Peaceforcer Elite Emile Garon.
Their eyes touched for just a moment. Then Trent was on his feet and moving. He 
yelled, Lights off, slapped the pressure pad on the wall and sprinted up the 
stairs as the wall resealed itself behind him. Halfway up he shouted, Johnny, 
blow the fadeaway, heard a muffled whump from downstairs and smelled the sweet, 
penetrating scent of the Complex 8-A as the fadeaway bomb inundated the room 
beneath him. He ran the rest of the way up the stairs, into his apartment. At 
the tub he lay down on his stomach, reached in with his right arm and pulled at 
one of the handles embedded in the side of the tub. The handle resisted and he 
pulled again, harder, and the entire bottom of the tub fell away, pouring the 
small pool down into the stairwell Trent had just come up, filling the stairwell 
to a height of three meters. If Garon managed to push back the correct section 
of wall, against the full weight of the water, he would be greeted with a small 
tidal wave.
Johnny Johnny said, Welcome home, Boss.
Trent came to his feet, ran to the workstation on the desk next to his bed. His 
handheld, which included Johnny Johnnys Image coprocessor circuitry, was 
plugged into the side of the systerm; Trent ripped it free and pushed it into 
the inner coat pocket of his suit. Johnny Johnnys voice came from inside the 
pocket. I set up all the records to wipe on your voice command, Boss. Say, 
Kwazy Wabbit. 
Trent pushed the desks upper right-hand drawer, paused a second and pressed it 
again, twice, in quick succession. The drawer slid open and Trent took from it a 
small package in antistatic lining. The package contained the most compact 
wealth in the world, more compact than gemstones, more compact than stamps. It 
held six and a half terabytesforty-five thousand Credit Units worthof RTS, hot 
RAM.
A bright thin line of red light reached up from the floor, before Trents eyes. 
Trent said in a flatly conversational tone of voice, Kwazy Wabbit. His 
traceset was on the bench on the other side of the room, hooked into the full 
sensory systerm. The thought struck Trent, in the instant that the scarlet laser 
beam reached up through the floor and the burnished wooden floor split apart, 
the laser beam tracking in a rough circle around the spot where Trent stood, 
that the cyborg was destroying a floor it had cost him two thousand Credit Units 
to lay down. A startling flare of pure anger touched him, and then he reached 
up, grabbed the cord hanging from the roof, and pulled down the folding stairs 
which led to the roof, as the floor beneath him fell entirely away. He scrambled 
up the stairs, three meters to the ceiling, and came up onto the gravel surface 
of the roof on his hands and knees, and then for the first time looked back down 
into the ruins of his home. Two stories beneath him, Emile Garon looked up at 
Trent through the hole in what had once been a two thousand CU floor.
The cyborg leaped straight up.
For a single fascinated, horrified moment, Trent thought the cyborg would reach 
the roof with that one leap. He did not quite; Garon came to a rest standing on 
the bottom step of the stairs. With immaculate calmness, as Garon came swiftly 
up the stairway, Trent withdrew his emblade, turned it on, cut the stairs free 
and watched Emile Garon and the stairs fall together in utter silence, fifteen 
meters down to the second floor of the shop.
Trent came to his feet slowly, and looked around.
His right arm was still dripping wet.
He seemed to himself to be completely calm, completely in control.
Trent did not have the vaguest idea what to do next. One jump would bring Garon 
back up to the third floor; another would take him up through the opening in the 
roof which the folding stairs had once filled. Trent walked to the side of the 
roof and looked over the edge; in the front of the building a pair of 
Peaceforcer cars were parked, autoshots and masers trained on the front entrance 
to the shop. The west side of the building was also covered by a PKF vehicle. 
The south side overlooked the small alleyway which led out behind the shop, and 
was completely empty.
He was three stories up and there was no way down at all.
When Trent turned away from looking down into the alley, Emile Garon was pulling 
himself up through the stairwell exit. He was injured; something had actually 
cut through the phenomenally tough false skin which covered every exposed area 
of his body, and blood trickled down his cheek. His black hair was pale with 
plaster dust.
Trent said, Youre hurt.
Garon stood slowly, glancing warily around the roof to see if further surprises 
awaited him. An Elite cyborg is fairly heavy, Monsieur Trent. We do not fall 
well and we do not like heights. He stood utterly still, like a bot, just 
looking at Trent. What now?
Garon was six meters away from Trent, standing right next to the hole in the 
roof where the stairs had been. Without giving himself time to think about it, 
Trent took a slow step backward. I suppose you want me to surrender?
If you would.
Trent took another step, and this time Garon did follow him, took a step away 
from the stairwell, from Garons only way off the roof. Id rather not, said 
Trent.
I do not want to hurt you, child. I was right about you; you are a very 
precious thing, Trent. You will not be brain-drained if you cooperate, I 
promise, said Garon softly. The Unification would hardly waste your unique 
skills so.
Trent took another step backward, and another. I dont doubt it, Emile. I was a 
slave through most of my childhood because of the Unifications unwillingness to 
waste my unique skills.
The Peaceforcer approached him across the roof. How old are you now, Trent?
Eighteen. The back of Trents right heel touched the lip of the small rise 
that ran around the perimeter of the roof.
And it was you, said Emile, with what Trent thought honest wonder in his 
voice, seven years ago, in the InfoNet. You were eleven years old.
Yeah. Trent did not dare look behind himself.
So young, to have done so much. I shall, he told Trent, plead for leniency in 
your case.
Trent took a long, deep breath. His nerves steadied, and everything came into 
focus. Well, there are advantages to being young. Garon was still too close to 
the stairwell.
The Peaceforcer came a step closer. Oh?
Agility, said Trent. How long would it take Garon to reach the ground? And 
Im told we heal fast.
Garon had covered nearly half the distance between the stairwell and Trent. He 
stopped quickly, in midstep. We are three stories up, child. Please dont.
Trent looked up, at the gray, cloud-covered sky. There was the faintest 
suggestion of mist in the air, of dampness. It was as though he stood outside of 
himself, and watched without interest as his body prepared to do something very 
dangerous. His eyes came back down from heaven, and stared straight at the 
Peaceforcer Elite. Catch me, he said softly, if you can.
The cyborg moved toward him in a blur of motion so fast Trent barely saw it. He 
pushed with his toes, and went backward, out over the edge and into the empty 
air.




2-
 ^  
Something brushed against the sole of his right foot.
He turned in midair and almost made it, struck the ground and rolled into the 
fall. He came out of it moving, with a shrill grating pain in his right knee, 
moving at very near a dead run down the alleyway toward the garage, half a block 
away.
He did not slow, did not dare look back. He could hear odd sounds from far down 
the alleywaywhat did a two-hundred-kilo Peaceforcer Elite running across a 
ferrocrete alleyway sound like?
Trent ran faster, ran until his knee threatened to give way. He reached the 
garage at the end of the alleyway, slapped the pressure pad once, so fast the 
pad had no time to ID his palm, waited a moment and then touched it again more 
slowly. The garage door curled open from the ground up, slowly; Trent dropped to 
his belly and wriggled through under the opening door, came back up again, and 
made his way to the car, keeping most of his weight on the left leg.
The car was a 61 Chandler MetalSmith Mark III.
With a steering wheel.
It was the model his father had owned, the same model as the car Carl 
Castanaveras had owned before his death, before the car itself had been 
proscribed, along with all other manually operable vehicles, by the Unification 
Council. Possession of an unmodified Chandler MetalSmith Mark III, inside 
TransCons Automated Traffic Control Regions, was good for five to fifteen years 
in a Public Labor Works Battalion.
It was capable of true flight, and on the ground it was the fastest hovercar 
anyone had ever built.
Trent had the canopy raised and was inside the car before the garage door was a 
quarter of the way up. One finger touched the ignition, brought the fans up and 
the MetalSmith rocked once and then lifted smoothly forty centimeters above the 
floor of the garage. The same procedure brought the turbines up with a smooth, 
deep-throated hum, feeding fuel to the turbojets at the rear of the car.
The garage door was nearly halfway open.
The steering wheel unlocked with a smooth click. Even in 61 a carcomp had been 
mandatory equipment, but on every machine Chandler had built until 64, the 
carcomp had not even turned itself on until so instructed by its operator.
Trent did not intend to turn the carcomp on; it was certain to disapprove of his 
driving. Trent had just finished activating the impact field, glanced up once 
again through the nearly open garage door, out at the empty alleyway, had the 
brief flash of a thought what could possibly be taking him so long and then the 
Peaceforcers AeroSmith descended gently, straight out of the sky, and came to a 
halt hovering above the pavement not twenty meters away from Trent. The 
MetalSmiths canopy began vibrating instantly; Garon was trying sonics. A pair 
of autoshots were tracking him as well, and Trent did not wait to see anything 
further; he punched the throttle to full acceleration.
The autoshots could not have been set for full automatic; Garon had time for 
only a single blast. The pellets struck the MetalSmiths canopy, cracked it 
slightly, and then the MetalSmith hammered into the Peaceforcer vehicle, twisted 
Garons car until Garons left front fender was smashed tightly into the side of 
the alleyway, and the car itself blocked Trents passage out of the alleyway. 
Trent did not hesitate, did not even give himself time to think about it; he lit 
the MetalSmiths turbojets at redline and the MetalSmith hung on Garons vehicle 
for just a second, and then leaped up like a living thing and shoved its way 
straight up and over the top of the AeroSmith.
In his worst nightmares Trent had never expected to drive the MetalSmith; he had 
purchased it on Booker Jamethons advice, for use in the event that he ever 
needed to make a high-speed run across the water.
The alleyway let out onto Ryerson; the car hit the street at seventy kph, and 
Trent tried to make a left turn. He had never driven a vehicle of any 
description at such speeds; the MetalSmith yawed, lifted its right side to 
direct its fans against the vehicles direction of travel, climbed up onto the 
slidewalk and smashed into the front of a closed beauty parlor.
In a PKF patrol vehicle across the street, a single Peaceforcer looked briefly 
startled. Trent barely glanced at him as he used the nose jets, pulled back away 
from the beauty shop and drove slowly and very carefully along the slidewalk 
until he reached a spot where he could bring the car back down onto the street.
In older action sensables made before manually operable vehicles had been 
outlawed, Trent remembered scenes where the hero or heroine had driven madly 
through crowded streets at two hundred or two hundred and fifty kilometers per 
hour. For the first time he wondered how theyd done it; the Peaceforcer behind 
him, making a U-turn to follow him down Ryerson, smashed into a cab almost 
instantly. Trent reached Flushing, turned right onto Flushing, and joined the 
flow of vehicles moving evenly down the street. He drove briefly east, made a 
left on Williamsburg and another onto Kent, following as closely as he was able 
the driving patterns of the carcomp-controlled vehicles around him.
Johnny Johnnys voice said softly, from inside Trents coat, Whats happening, 
Boss?
Two AeroSmiths appeared in the view from Trents rear cameras, moving north on 
Kent, hovering five meters above the flow of street traffic. Bad stuff, 
Johnny. The Peaceforcer vehicles were gaining on him. They had not seen him 
yet, but it was only a matter of moments. One of the vehicles had a smashed 
front left fender: Garon. Really bad stuff.
Johnny Johnny said, Oh.
I really dont like this, said Trent under his breath. An AeroSmith such as 
the Peaceforcers used was not, properly speaking, a hovercar at all; they were 
aircraft that could, if they had to, drive in traffic. Taking to the air was not 
necessarily a bright way to lose his pursuit.
But the uncompleted Hoffman Spacescraper was only eight blocks away.
And Peaceforcers Elite did not like heights.
He brought the fans up to one half, and the MetalSmith surged upward, into plain 
sight of the pursuing Peaceforcers; snapped the MetalSmiths wings open, hit the 
rear turbojets at full, and headed for the Hoffman Spacescraper.
It was a long, slow climb, eight blocks north and three kilometers straight up, 
with the Peaceforcers gaining on him all the way. A small fleet of AeroSmiths 
followed the lead pair: nearly fifteen cars full of Peaceforcers. Trents teeth 
ached; Garon and the car with him were aiming their sonics at him. The 
MetalSmith was still too far away for the sonics to be dangerous; but they made 
the cars canopy buzz, made his teeth hurt.
He thought about turning the MetalSmiths radio on and listening in on the PKF, 
but couldnt think of anything that it would gain him. They knew where he was, 
he knew where they were.
The Spacescraper grew with agonizing slowness, from a distant landmark to a 
towering monolith that blocked out half of Trents sky. The tiny squares on the 
spacescrapers sides became huge offices; people inside were flocking to the 
windows to watch the drama that the Boards had notified them was unfolding.
At two kilometers height Trent was only thirty meters from the side of the 
Spacescraper. The MetalSmith could not go straight up; Trent took it around the 
Spacescraper, began circling the two-block-square structure as the MetalSmith 
rose, lazy loops that took the MetalSmith up some three hundred meters per 
circuit. The AeroSmiths had no such limitation; they reached the same altitude 
as the MetalSmith while Trent was still two hundred meters below the level where 
the spacescrapers exterior walls ceased. The Peaceforcers did not fire upon him 
with their autoshots; they kept the sonics focused on the car, and Trent felt 
himself becoming drowsy.
Two hundred meters  one-forty  eighty meters left. Trent found himself 
yawning. If I just close my eyes for a moment, he thought, I can rest and then 
The walls were gone.
Trent brought the MetalSmith around in a slow, gentle loop, smiling dreamily, 
and at over a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour flew straight into the 
superstructure of the Hoffman Spacescraper.

The voice nagged at him and wouldnt stop.
In his entire life Trent could not recall any physical pain to match the feeling 
that greeted him upon his ascent into consciousness. The knee he had injured 
earlier was hurt worse now, a grinding flare of agony that outstripped even the 
pain from the time when he was thirteen and the Temple Dragons had taken turns 
beating him.
The car was half on its side, jammed in between a pair of twisted girders. The 
canopy was completely shattered; jagged pieces still hung in the frame, but most 
of it was gone.
 Boss! Damn it, Boss, whats happening? Im stuck in the goddamn handheld and 
I cant see a thing! Boss? Talk to me, Boss, Im getting scared and
Trent said blurrily, Be quiet. Johnny Johnnys voice cut off immediately. 
Trent remembered the impact field cutting in as the car struck; it was still 
turned on, making breathing difficult, movement all but impossible. He reached 
forward, under the dash, touched the emergency release and suddenly he could 
breathe again.
The quick cold rush of air into his lungs brought him the rest of the way back. 
His vision cleared, and he became aware of where he was. He moved carefully, 
pulling his damaged right leg out from beneath the dashboard and climbing up 
through the shattered canopy.
He was three kilometers above the surface of the world, up where the winds were 
fierce and cold. The finished sections of the spacescraper were ten floors 
beneath him. The MetalSmith had penetrated twenty meters into the structure of 
the spacescraper, twenty meters away from the long drop to the Earth below.
From twenty meters away, from Emile Garons vehicle, hovering just outside the 
twisted hole the MetalSmith had torn into the side of the spacescraper, the 
sonics struck Trent like a blow. Trent did not even think about what he was 
doing; he pulled himself the rest of the way out of the MetalSmith while he was 
still able, out into the maze of girders. There was no floor at all, only a mass 
of intersecting beams and girders, and a drop of ten stories to the roof of the 
last floor where construction had been finished. He lay down on a girder, hung 
by hands that were already growing numb from the sonics, and dropped down five 
meters to the next level.
He struck the beam hard; the world went away again.
He came back to the world to find himself staring at the rough gray plastisteel 
surface of the girder he was clutching.
The thought came to Trent slowly.
There was a maglev at the center of the spacescraper.
He raised his head slowlyjust his head, no other part of his body, not letting 
go of his grip on the girder at alland looked through the maze of structural 
plastisteel, into the center of the spacescraper. At its base the spacescraper 
covered two square blocks, but it tapered as it got higher. The car had crashed 
some twenty meters in; the center of the spacescraper could not be more than 
about thirty meters away.
Ignoring the pain in his knee, Trent began crawling.
Behind him he could hear something, he was not quite sure what; he kept 
crawling, did not look back. Through the infrastructure of the beams, a large 
open space began to appear. Before he reached it, the beam he was on intersected 
another beam that was nearly a full meter wide, with a line of dead glowpaint 
running down the girders center; Trent crawled onto what was obviously intended 
as a walkway, and with incredible slowness brought himself to his feet. He 
walked down the very center of the beam, ignoring by sheer force of will the 
rasping pain in his knee, freezing motionless with every gust of wind, toward 
the place where the maglev platform had to be.
At the very center of the spacescraper there was a gaping shaft, a square fully 
thirty meters on a side. The walkway Trent was on ran all the way around the 
edge of the shaft; looking down, Trent could see the maglev platform itself, 
nine floors beneath him. It was only nine floors, not three kilometers, and 
still it was high enough that something inside him locked up for a moment at the 
sight.
He looked up again and Emile Garon was standing on the other side of the maglev 
shaft. The shock was so great Trent swayed and nearly fell, grabbed at the 
nearest girder and held tightly to it.
Garon was actually grinning at Trent, face creased in a position that was, for a 
Peaceforcer Elite, entirely unnatural. His voice carried clearly across the 
distance. You are the most amazing person I have ever met.
The controls to the maglev were not ten meters away from Trent, on Trents side 
of the shaft; Garon would have to come all the way around the shaft to reach 
them. Trent moved as quickly as he was able to toward the controls, not looking 
down at all. He reached the controls and touched the pressure point marked up.
The maglev platform, nine stories beneath them, began moving up. When it reached 
Trents level, Emile Garon would simply walk across the platform and take him.
Trent touched the pressure point marked stop. The maglev ceased moving 
instantly.
Garon stood, watching Trent.
There was no way the maglev was going to work.
Garon had been alone in his vehicle.
There would be nobody in it now.
Garon called, Will you see us both killed? Monsieur Trent, this is pointless. 
Will you not surrender now?
Surely the maglev had not been the only way to get from one floor to another? 
Trent looked around slowly, at the abandoned jungle of girders and walkways. For 
the first time he looked at the vertical that he was holding onto; there were 
ridges cut in the surface of the plastisteel. Trent dug his fingertips into one; 
shallow, not really intended to be climbed by hand, but serviceable.
Trent yelled back at Garon, Yes! and muttered under his breath, Yes, I wont, 
frog. He reached up as high as he could, dug his fingertips in, and pulled 
himself up. Left foot into one ridge, right foot hanging free, and with two 
hands and one leg began climbing.
Garon simply stared at Trent as Trent climbed, and then the red laser flicked 
out from Garons clenched fist, touched plastisteel only centimeters from 
Trents hand. The pain struck Trent after a moment had passed, flowered slowly 
at the edges of his awareness. Trent moved around as quickly as he was able to 
the other side of the girder, so that the bulk of the vertical was between 
himself and Garon, and kept climbing. The laser flicked past both sides of the 
girder without touching Trent, and then stopped. Trent spent no time worrying 
about why the cyborg had quit shooting at him; two meters left, and then one, 
and he pulled himself back up onto the level he had originally crashed on. He 
took a moment, looked down and saw Garon attempting the same climb on a 
different girder; he was barely a quarter of the way up, moving with a degree of 
caution that brought his words back to Trent forcibly: We do not fall well and 
we do not like heights.
To the west Trent could see the twisted tunnel of snapped girders and beams 
where the MetalSmith had crashed. Garons AeroSmith had been brought down to a 
truly precarious landing just inside that corridor, not five meters from the 
edge, front and rear of the vehicle balanced on a pair of girders that the 
MetalSmith had damaged, stretched, on its way in. The AeroSmith wobbled slightly 
in the wind. Trent stood for a moment utterly motionless, simply looking at the 
AeroSmith in complete disbelief. Garon had gotten out of his vehicle, with the 
vehicle swaying in the wind like that, to make an arrest?
Garon, thought Trent clearly, slightly amazed that it had taken him so long to 
realize something that was, after all, quite obvious, is crazy. Swaying slightly 
with simple exhaustion, Trent glanced down again; Garon was only halfway done 
with the climb. Two hundred kilos moving upward on his fingers and toes: it was 
something the Elites designers had clearly never anticipated. Goddamn 
fanatics, said Trent to the wind, moving again toward the AeroSmith, I hate 
fanatics.
He advanced along the beam slowly, distantly aware of how close he was to the 
limits of his endurance, not looking back. The entire area around the MetalSmith 
was a treacherous mess; Trent skirted it carefully, moving parallel to the 
corridor where the MetalSmith had torn its way into the spacescraper. He passed 
the MetalSmith without looking at it; even if it was still functional, he needed 
something that could reach the ground at least as fast as the vehicles of the 
Peaceforcers who were swarming outside around the perimeter of the spacescraper. 
He could see them now, twenty or thirty AeroSmiths in the black and silver of 
the United Nations Peace Keeping Force, making slow circuits of the 
spacescraper.
He was on the correct side of the corridor, the north side, where Garon had left 
his vehicle. Looking back, Trent could see Garon himself; he had come up on the 
wrong side of the wrecked passageway and was following Trent, gaining on him, 
behind Trent and fifteen meters to his left, without seeming to realize that 
there was no way for him to cross that empty space.
The AeroSmith was only fifteen meters past Trents car; it took Trent nearly 
half a minute to traverse the distance. His right leg had turned into a single 
shriek of pain; the muscles in his thigh were cramping, seizing up and relaxing 
again without any particular pattern. In his mind he had planned how things 
would go: get into the AeroSmith, pull the machine back out into the empty air, 
and let it fall. Garon would be left on the spacescraper; with luck none of the 
Peaceforcers in their AeroSmiths would be foolish enough to follow him as his 
stolen vehicle plummeted toward the ground.
He had reached Garons AeroSmith. The car rested on a diagonal slant, in touch 
with the girders supporting it at only two points. Garon had turned the fans 
off; stupid. They would have helped stabilize the thing. Garon came even with 
him at that moment, standing on the other side of the divide, arm extended and 
rigid, the glowing cherry laser in his fist pointed directly at Trent. The 
cyborgs voice was utterly dead, utterly without inflection. If you move, 
monsieur, I will kill you.
From somewhere Trent found the strength to reply. Were three klicks up, Emile. 
Did you lock the car behind you? Trent did not wait for a reply; without moving 
anything but his hand he laid his palm flat against the pressure pad that opened 
the canopy, and the canopy swung up.
Garon fired. The canopy swung smoothly up, directly into the beam, and darkened 
instantly as it went about distributing the heat from the laser away from the 
point of contact. Trent stood for a moment, looking at the motionless form of 
the cyborg through the smoky gray canopy, and with what was very nearly his last 
strength called, Emile? Im leaving now. Good-bye.
The laser ceased.
Through the clearing canopy, Trent saw Garons fist drop to his side, and then 
Emile Garon screamed. The sound was pure and wordless, an expression of 
elemental rage.
And the cyborg leaped.
Ten meters across a gaping chasm. The moment was imprinted in Trents memory for 
the rest of his life, with an unreal perfection of clarity and detail. He had 
time to watch the dark gray streaks fading from the canopy, time to watch Garon 
as he seemed to float across the chasm, above the drop of three kilometers, to 
come down solidly upon the surface of the AeroSmith. He had time to watch the 
flat rictus of rage on Garons features flicker slightly, as the AeroSmith 
tipped, slid, and fell a single story with Garons fingers tearing into the 
vehicles surface, ripping metal in a desperate attempt to gain a hold. The 
AeroSmith dropped, nose down, and came to a shuddering, screaming stop against 
one of the large verticals, the vehicles engine smashing down into the 
passenger compartment.
Garons fall never even slowed. He struck the same vertical as the AeroSmith and 
bounced off, a vaguely surprised look seemingly frozen on his features, bounced 
off still reaching for some hold, out into the empty air and the long drop to 
the distant Earth.
There was not much Trent remembered after that. Later he could not recall how he 
had gotten back to the maglev, nor the trip down to the top of the finished 
construction. He remembered somewhat more clearly the moment when the maglev 
slowed, descended into complete darkness, and then stopped.
He stood in the utter blackness for perhaps five seconds, and then the glowpaint 
flickered and came on automatically. He was on a single floor with no dividing 
walls at all, nothing but huge columns which enclosed the large vertical beams. 
Arrayed against the far walls there were upward of two hundred bounce tubes, 
about fifty per wall; near the east wall was a series of small maglev platforms. 
To all sides of Trent were maglev platforms every bit as large as the one he 
stood upon; the maglev platform he had descended upon was merely the center 
platform in a square of nine such.
He went down in the high-speed bounce tube. There were two chairs in the bounce 
tube. Trent sat down, strapped himself in, said calmly, Command, first floor.
The bounce tube dropped.
Three kilometers; four minutes, dropping at forty-five kph.
Twenty seconds into the drop, Johnny Johnny said quietly, Boss?
Yes?
Is it safe to talk?
Yes.
Were in the Hoffman Spacescraper. Ive got access to the InfoNet through radio 
packets in the bounce tube. Is there anything I should do?
Are the packets being polled for users?
Checking  no, Boss. Id have to crack the Boards running the security inside 
the Spacescraper to be sure, but I dont think so.
Trent said softly, Call Jodi Jodi at the Red Line. Have her send me a cab.
Johnny Johnny stopped the bounce tube down on B3, three floors below the lobby. 
The door to the bounce tube opened on a long hallway lined with trash bins. Two 
janitors were playing chess not far from where Trent moved, like an old man, 
from the bounce tube. They stared at him but said nothing and made no attempt to 
stop Trent as he walked by them. The doors at the end of the hallway would not 
open to his palmprint, but there was an optical interface for his handheld 
beneath the pressure pad; Trent jacked in and let Johnny Johnny talk to the 
door.
Five seconds, six; the doors parted for him. The doors opened out onto a street 
Trent did not recognize. He joined the flow of pedestrians and walked without 
hurry, without limping, across the street. The sign on the corner told him he 
was at the corner of Bedford and Broadway; he looked around aimlessly at the 
endless stream of cars through the streets.
Two blocks down there was a knot in the traffic, five Peaceforcer patrol 
vehicles surrounding some disturbance.
Emile, thought Trent.
The Peugeot hovercab pulled up immediately in front of him as a Peaceforcer 
AeroSmith rounded the corner and began its sweep down Bedford; the rear door of 
the cab opened outward and Denice snapped, Get in!
He did his best to comply; he collapsed forward.

The same doctor whod done Jimmy Ramirez cared for Trent. Trent remembered her 
vaguely when he awoke later that afternoon, remembered with equal vagueness 
Jimmy and Bird and Jodi Jodi and Denice wandering in and out of his room.
He awoke clearheaded, near nightfall, to find himself alone. He turned on the 
systerm next to the bed and ordered coffee from room service, then got up and 
went into the bathroom; his knee was numb, not shaky but completely without 
feeling. He used the same shower he had that morning, but at greater length, 
standing under the hot water until his muscles were utterly relaxed. He got out 
finally, brushed his teeth, and went back into the bedroom. There was coffee and 
toast next to his bed, with a note from Jodi Jodi that he was to stay in bed 
until Denice came for him. Trent checked next door; Jimmy was gone.
Trent went back to bed, and only then noticed that his handheld was jacked into 
the systerm. Johnny?
Johnny Johnnys voice was curiously subdued. Yes, Boss?
How you doing?
Pretty good. Thanks for coming to get me, Boss. The web angels were after me, 
and I think at least one Player, and I was scared, so I hid and didnt answer 
the phone. Im sorry you got hurt.
I feel pretty good, Johnny. I wasnt hurt real bad.
What do we do now, Boss?
Trent was silent for a moment, lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling. I 
think we run away, Johnny. I think we run as far away as we can get.
In that same subdued tone of voice Johnny Johnny said simply, Okay, Boss.
Johnny?
Yeah?
You did good, Johnny. Im not mad at you.
Youre not? Not even because I hid?
You did just fine.
Oh. Johnny Johnny was silent for a moment. Thanks, Boss.
Trent was silent after that, and Johnny Johnny as well. He was still lying awake 
in bed when the door to the bedroom opened, and Denice came to join him. She 
took off her blouse as she came into the bedroom, and stood at the foot of the 
bed as she undressed. I really hate saying good-bye to people, Trent. Im not 
good at it.
Im sorry.
She shrugged, pulling off the danskin underneath the blouse. Its not your 
fault. Her skirt dropped to the floor, followed by her shoes and panties. 
Doctor Jane said you were okay except to not put any weight on your knee; its 
being held together with glue and rubber bands.
You went to practice today?
She stood completely nude at the foot of the bed. It seemed less suspicious. 
Four hours, from two to six. We had you back by then, and Johnny Johnny said 
there were no Peaceforcer dispatches in the InfoNet about me that he could 
find.
So youre safe.
Denice got into bed with him, pulled the covers back and snuggled up against 
him. It looks like. She whispered to him. I talked to Johnny Johnny earlier 
today, while you were being operated on.
Yes?
Hes a real person. He hurts about things.
I know.
You were right to go get him.
I know. Trent said quietly, Johnny?
Yes?
Shut yourself off for a while.
Okay, Boss.
From where they lay, looking out the thirty-second floor window, they could see 
the Peaceforcers, their hovercars and spyeyes, searching restlessly back and 
forth across the city; scarlet fireflies at that distance, their searchlights 
only pinpricks of bright white. As the night wore on, it grew colder outside, 
and moisture condensed at the window, smearing the bright sharp lights into a 
sort of beauty.
Denice stirred slightly in the confines of Trents arms. When will you go?
Trent answered very quietly; a human would probably not have heard him. Soon. 
Not yet.
And where?
I dont know yet.
Okay.
They need to follow me, he said after a moment. They need to be drawn away 
from you, and if theyre looking for me theyre not looking for you. If I die 
its just me. If you diethen theyve won. Davids probably dead, Denice. If you 
die, theres nothing left of what they were, and Amnier, Eddore, Vance, all of 
them, theyve won at last.
Trent sat up against the headboard. Denice rolled onto her back, and left her 
head resting against his knees. She looked up, toward the ceiling there was not 
light enough to see.
Where, Trent?
Free Luna, I think, he said finally, or else Mars, or the Belt CityStates. 
Somewhere outside Peaceforcer control. They wont stop looking for me on Earth. 
I dont think theyll ever stop looking for me now.
Denice said slowly, I think youre right. Im so sorry, but I think you are. I 
wish we hadnt rescued you.
Its okay. Make me a promise, Denice?
Done.
Dont you want to know what it is?
I do know.
Oh. All right. But dont let him know youre watching out for him. He wouldnt 
like that.
I know. Youre sure Bird will be okay with Jodi Jodi?
They were doing fine together, in the middle of the Fringe, when I met them. 
Theyll do fine in the Patrol Sectors when Im gone.
She took a deep breath, and seemed to accept that. Be careful, she whispered 
into the darkness. Youre all I have left now.
Minutes later, Denice Castanaveras was asleep. They stayed in that position, 
Trent sitting upright with her head resting above his knees, until the morning 
sunlight began to burn the mist away from the windows.
Trent the Uncatchable did not sleep that night. When morning came, he lifted 
Denices head from his lap, gently, left a note on the systerm next to the 
bedside, and left Denice Castanaveras behind to become a legend.
At the hotels desk he left instructions that a single white rose be delivered 
to her room.
The note he left on the systerm said:
Dont worry. Its going to be all right.
Trent




3-
 ^  
He was a product of his time, Mohammed Vance, an ideolog who believed that the 
values of the Unification were good values, worth defending from the likes of 
Trent the Uncatchable.
For many years, he was right. Things were not always so bad as they became 
toward the end.
He was in many ways a good man. That fortune chose Mohammed Vance to play the 
role of Trents enemy does not change that.
The Peaceforcer Elite Melissa du Bois, as quoted in The Exodus Bible

Commissioner? Commissioner Vance?
Oi. The voice that answered was deep, rumbling.
Your pardon, sir. I do not speak French.
Yes, what is it? You dragged me from my bed; this had better be good.
Sir, you are directed to report for duty in Capitol City, by ten hundred hours 
today Capitol City time. The orders are direct from the Secretary-Generals 
office, sir.
The Capitol? What the hell for?
Sir, we have a Peaceforcer Elite killed here.
There was a brief, flat pause. Killed?
Sir, it appears so. His body was dumped from the top of the uncompleted Hoffman 
Spacescrapermurder, as nearly as we can tell. Apparently there are recordings 
of the event taken by nearby PKF.
Have you seen them yourself?
No, sir.
I see. Has the news leaked?
No, sir.
Thank God for that. Another pause. Names?
Sir?
The murderer and the dead Elite, idiot.
Yes, sir. The Peaceforcers name was Garon, sir, PKF Elite Sergeant Emile 
Garon. As nearly as we can determine, the murderer was a minor New York area 
webdancer; perhaps a Player. Or thief, something like that. He escaped PKF 
custody early Monday.
Emile is dead?
Yes, sir.
And the thiefsor webdancers, or Playersname, if I might inquire after that 
small fact?
Sir? Trent.
Trent?
Yes, sir.
There was another pause. Trent what?
Its all we have, sir. Just Trent.

Trent walked down the corridor on the 183rd floor of the LFevre Spacescraper, 
the fourth tallest building in New York, the tallest that was not on Manhattan 
Island. In his left hand he carried the briefcase Jodi Jodi had given him.
Trent stopped before one doorway very like any other in the corridor, except 
that there was no nameplate next to the doorgrid. Without pausing he withdrew a 
small, spidery black-metal object from the right-hand pocket of his suit, and 
placed it over the doorgrid.
The suit was made of optical polycloth; it had been tuned to a dark marine blue. 
The briefcase Trent carried was also a deep shade of blue.
They very nearly matched.
The pick Trent had attached to Booker Jamethons door beeped once. Trent plucked 
the pick off the doorgrid, and put it back in his pocket.
The door was solid wood, not memory plastic; it slid aside without flexing or 
curling at all, into a compartment within the wall.
Trent stepped inside, the door closing itself behind him. The room he stepped 
into was very dark after the brightness of the sunpaint in the hallway outside. 
Tiny red dots danced before his eyes. The room was cool, at least 5C below the 
temperature of the rest of the building.
As Trents eyesight adjusted to the dimness, he made out a room that was 
remarkably cluttered. Its living room was also the kitchen, and held one table 
and two benches. There were shelves on every wall. SpaceFarer booknets 
strengthened for gravity hung down forty centimeters from the ceiling. 
Everything held some measure of esoteric equipment: reels of monofilament 
fineline, bundles of the optic fiber that SpaceFarers called lasercable, 
superconductor strips, chemical apparatus and chipglue; one shelf held a 
half-dozen blocks of very expensive molecular circuitry, with equally expensive 
viewtracers attached to them. There were two half-assembled (or 
half-disassembled) serving robots, and what Trent recognized as an ancient 
FrancoDEC LapVax.
Tools were scattered everywhere.
In the entire room there was only one place to sit, an overstuffed chair that 
looked quite comfortable, just to the left of the door which doubtless led to 
the bedroom. Booker Jamethon, sitting in it, also looked quite comfortable. He 
was pointing an unrecognizable amalgamation of gadgetry at Trent; Trent 
suspected it was a weapon.
Trent said, Hello, Booker. He looked around for a place to put down his 
briefcase.
Booker Jamethon was the ugliest person Trent had ever met in his life. Somewhere 
in his late fifties, he was at least thirty kilograms overweight, and he 
depilated too rarely. His inskin was ancient, seven years old at least. His arms 
were massively muscled and incredibly long. One of his legs was shorter than the 
other.
Booker was, Trent was certain, the worlds hairiest living human.
Trent did not know what Bookers Image was, though he had some very good 
guesses. He was without question one of the half-dozen most famous Players in 
the world.
Booker said gently, Hello, Trent. May I ask some questions? He spoke in a deep 
baritone, the words themselves uttered in a precise, cultured accent. What are 
you doing in my apartment? How did you find my apartment? How did you acquire my 
door code? What do you want of me?
Trent stood very still. Dont you ever audit the news, Booker?
No.
Oh.
The news Boards are obnoxious institutions, said Booker. They should be 
abolished in favor of rumor mongering. I did hear youd been arrested, and that 
the Player Johnny Johnny took down three quarters of the PKF Boards in Capitol 
City when you escaped. I also heard that the PKF thought you were the Player 
Ralf the Wise and Powerful, from back a few years ago. Booker smiled broadly at 
Trent. I remember Ralf. He was a punk.
Look, Booker
Look, Trent. Booker waved the thing in his hand at Trent. You are not 
answering my question.
I need to get off Earth, Booker.
Excuse me, said Booker Jamethon. Questions, in the plural; you are not 
answering my questions.
Trent found an empty spot amid the junk on the floor. He put down the briefcase 
on it. Im in trouble, Booker. The Peaceforcers are after me, and I need to get 
off Earth. The further off the better. I came to you because your love for the 
Left Hand of the Devil is known far and wide.
Booker Jamethon smiled for the first time since Trent had entered his apartment. 
My dear boy. I fully understand that you will be even less inclined to answer 
my questions after I have shot you, but you are beginning to annoy me.
Im in your apartment because I need help. Ive known where you lived ever 
since we boosted Toomeys place together. I didnt have your door code until 
just now, and I dont actually know what it is because I havent dumped my pick 
since it opened the door. What I want from you, said Trent seriously, is your 
help.
Booker chuckled. Trent would not have sworn that the booknets above his head 
started moving at that precise moment, only that it was the first time he had 
noticed it. What did they arrest you for, Trent? Did you finally boost the 
wrong article? Or was there some complication in one of your generally brilliant 
operations which you had not foreseen? In the past, as I recall, complications 
have included enraged bankers, enraged fathers, enraged Peaceforcers, enraged 
husbands, at least one enraged wife that I know of, and one enraged midget.
Thats not true, said Trent, that story about the midget.
What, said Booker Jamethon very slowly, does the United Nations Peace Keeping 
Force want you for?
Trent said, They think Im a telepath, and they think I killed a Peaceforcer.
Booker Jamethon sat motionless for several moments, fixing Trent with one of his 
patented five-Credit stares.
Well, Im not. And I didnt.
Booker very carefully laid the weapon on a small stool next to him which had the 
sole virtue of being slightly less crowded with machinery than everything 
surrounding it. He stood like a small mountain moving. You didnt?
It was an accident, said Trent quickly. A mistake. He fell.
Standing completely motionless, Booker Jamethons eyes dropped slowly shut. 
Trent would have given a great deal to know what Image stirred and ventured 
forth into the InfoNet in that moment. A moment later he wondered where that 
Image had gone; the information Bookers Image came back with was nothing out of 
any public Board. Oh, my God, said Booker quietly. He opened his eyes again 
and stared through the gloom at Trent. You stupid shit. You killed a 
Peaceforcer Elite.
He fell, Booker! It wasnt my fault.
Do you have a short between the trodes, Trent? You came to me with the 
Peaceforcers chasing you? After a long moment Booker Jamethon said, far, far 
too quietly, I dont like this, Trent. How close are they?
Not very. I audited a PKF Board I have a tap in while I was on my way over 
here; it says theyve assigned a Peaceforcer named Mohammed Vance to oversee the 
investigation.
Should that mean something to me?
I suppose not.
You know of him? Booker demanded.
Vaguely.
Is he any good?
Probably. Trent paused. Yes.
DataWatch?
Elite. According to the personnel file on him, DataWatch has received help from 
him in Realtime hunts; he took down the Wizard Woz two years ago.
Booker Jamethon took a very long, deep breath, not looking away from Trent at 
all, and said again, How close, damn it?
I think I lost them. At least temporarily. Theres this huge search going on 
for me, Booker
Booker stared through the gloom at Trent. Trent tried to guess how angry Booker 
was. Very, was his guess. You think you lost them. I feel better now.
Free Luna, Mars, the Belt CityStates
Why me, damn it? roared Booker abruptly.
Because, said Trent, theyre pretty sure who my Image is, they know who I am 
and they know I dont have an inskin. Every full-sensory systerm within fifty 
klicks is locked down right now. There are webdancers all over the damned 
InfoNet, just waiting for me to come across the interface. I need to see a 
makeup artist, which I could do myself, but I also need to place passage and for 
work that detailed I need a full sensory. I cant go back to mine. The 
Peaceforcers have had that since this time yesterday. I dont even have my 
traceset any more. Booker was just looking at him, and Trent said simply, 
Youre the only other Player I know.
Booker snapped, Luna?
That would be fine. Its the tourist in me, Booker, said Trent sincerely. 
Ive always wanted to see Luna.
Booker Jamethon closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again 
Trent could not quite make out the expression on Bookers face. Very well, 
said Booker after a moment. How would you like to leave Earth as a 
Peaceforcer?
Trent blinked. Id love to. Booker?
Yes?
Could I leave as a particular Peaceforcer?

Trent froze when the woman turned on the holocams. What are you doing?
Recording the session, sonny. The makeup artist was a pleasant, chubby woman 
who had introduced herself to Trent as Mick. Mick was easily old enough to be 
beginning geriatrics treatments sometime soon, if she had not already started; 
she was one of perhaps half a dozen women Trent had ever seen in his life who 
had wrinkles on her face. This is a Syndic shop, and we keep records.
Trent sat up in the long chair, reaching for his shirt. Not a chance.
The woman sighed. Booker said you were going to be difficult. Listen, kid, 
youre shipping to Free Luna tonight? Yes?
Trent said cautiously, Yes.
So no time for biosculpt. Youre on a ship tonight and you need to look 
different than you do now when you go through Unification Spaceport. At the end 
of the day the Syndic local systerm polls my machine, and my systerm spills its 
guts.
Now, I dont care how bad the PKF wants you, no way are my records going to get 
indexed in time for the Syndic to sell your face to the PKF before this time 
tomorrowby which time, kid, youre on the damn Moon and outside their reach and 
you can get biosculpted proper. You get the idea? You should trust Booker. If he 
wanted to send you off there would have been brass balls or Syndic enforcers or 
somebody at my door when you got here.
Trent sighed. All right.
Youre a nice boy. Lay back and shut up. This is going to hurt.

Trent spent most of the afternoon atop an abandoned building at the edge of the 
Fringe. It was a gorgeous day that could not make up its mind whether it wanted 
to be sunny or cloudy; it was windy enough that the huge gray clouds were 
scudding across the blue sky above him at a just perceptible clip. From atop the 
building he could see, across the Hudson River, midtown Manhattan, home of the 
Unification Council of the United Nations. He could see lower Manhattan, once 
the business capitol of the world. It was no longer the business capitol of the 
world, had not been since being nuked the first time, during the closing days of 
the Unification War. The swarm of tactical nukes had destroyed Wall Street and a 
huge chunk of New York city and state government offices. Irreplaceable 
financial records had been lost in the destruction; a fifteen-year global 
depression had followed.
The United Nations had helped rebuild lower Manhattan into one of the most 
prestigious residential areas in the world, and then, in 2062, theyd nuked it 
again; a smaller destruction this time but still sufficient to make the southern 
tip of the island uninhabitable for over a year.
In the other direction Trent could see the Fringe. Five minutes of battle 
between the Peaceforcers and the telepaths had caused that stretching 
desolation; nearly a quarter of the population of southern New York and New 
Jersey had gone utterly insane that night of July 3, 2062, when the telepaths, 
at the Chandler Complex in lower Manhattan, had fought and been destroyed.
He sat atop the gravel-strewn rooftop until night fell, looking out over the 
sprawling city that had been his home. Once her thoughts touched him, 
glancingly, searchingly, but he did not respond.
He left his handheld in his briefcase for nearly the entire time. Booker had 
been unable to find a traceset for him in all of the junk in his apartment. 
Booker himself did not need a traceset; even his obsolete inskin was more 
useful.
Trents ship was lifting from Unification Spaceport at 8:15.
At 6:20 he removed his handheld from the briefcase and said, Johnny?
Johnny Johnny said, Hello, Boss. Status: on over two-thirds of the Boards on 
Earth, two hundred fifteen million Boards at present, there has been no mention 
of the name Trent in conjunction with the death of PKF Elite Emile Garon. 
Insufficient processing time to check the remaining hundred ten million Boards, 
but I hit every major commercial Board, every institutional Board open to the 
public, every government Board, every Player Board where I have access. The PKF 
has not yet released to the news Boards the fact that it was a PKF Elite who 
died yesterday. Nor, said Johnny Johnny in his best newsdancer voice, have 
they released your name, or a description of you, or any pertinent background on 
the escape from the Detention Center in Capitol City. PKF Boards in Capitol City 
are still largely in a state of higgledy-piggledy since the infamous Player 
Johnny Johnny crashed them early yesterday morning. Mohammed Vance arrived on a 
chartered semiballistic from France early this morning, and has been directing 
the hunt for you since that time. To date, they have not caught you. Johnny 
Johnny paused. In nine hours and forty minutes we are scheduled to arrive at 
the city of Alphonse, port of entry into Free Luna.
Higgledy-piggledy?
That means in confusion: topsy-turvy, randomly. Or, A real mess, Boss.
Thanks, Johnny.
No problem.
At 6:30 exactly Trent stood, brushed the dust off the seat of his pants, walked 
down five flights to street level, and called for a cab to take him into 
Manhattan.
Into Peaceforcer territory.
Trent relaxed in the back seat of the hovercab with his eyes closed. The 
hovercab was waiting in line with about forty other vehicles, to be processed 
across Almundsen Bridge and onto the island of Manhattan.
The cabs radio was tuned to channel 9.1.46; Capitol City, Metro News, Crime.
When Trents cab reached the checkpoint, two gendarmes approached it from each 
side.
Trent did not open his eyes.
Without addressing Trent, one of the two opened the front door and checked the 
cabs readout.
The gendarme closed the front door. He called out, PKF business. Priority 
routing. The cab pulled out of the line, and entered the flow of traffic 
crossing the bridge.
On the radio, the announcer stated that a Peaceforcer had been killed at 
approximately 9:30 yesterday morning, in the vicinity of the uncompleted Hoffman 
Spacescraper. She repeated the fairly stale news that Commissioner Mohammed 
Vance had assumed control of the investigation, and that, given Vances past 
success in Realtime manhunts of this sort, apprehension of the murderer was 
expected shortly.
Arms crossed across his chest, eyes closed, to all appearances dead to the 
world, Trent murmured, Really?
The Friday previous, the Unification Council had adjourned, and Unification 
Spaceport was filled to overflowing with nearly a quarter of a million humans. 
The vast majority of them were waiting for semiballistics to take them elsewhere 
on Earth; a few were waiting for shuttles to Midway, or other points in near 
Earth orbit; a very few were waiting for SpaceFarer craft to Luna, or Mars, or 
even the Belt CityStates.
Trents hovercab let him off at the passenger station for Manhattan Spaceport 
South. The gouge for the short flight was bad; CU:6.75. Trent did not mind; 
United Nations Peace Keeping Force Discretionary Account 1303, userid 42, paid 
for it under the impression that Trent was a person named Mohammed Vance.
The southern tip of Manhattan Island makes an excellent spaceport, aside from 
the fact that it is too far north of the equator. It is immediately adjacent to 
Capitol City, the nerve center of the United Nations. At the time of its 
construction, it had had yet another point in its favor; not quite a year 
previously the enclave of telepaths in that location had been nuked. There was 
not much left standing at the southernmost tip of Manhattan Island when it was 
all over with; there was simply nobody left to object when the Unification 
Council decided to build there.
The maglev took Trent down several floors to the central lobby. There, just past 
the point where the maglev ended, and before a half kilometer of service 
counters for the half-dozen companies which spaced out of lower Manhattan, a row 
of some thirty Information Network cubicles was arrayed against both walls.
Trent made his way through the crowds to them, and entered an empty one near the 
middle of the row, closing the door behind him. Inside, he ignored the room 
monitor; the odds were vastly in his favor that DataWatch would not poll this 
particular systerm while Trent was there, and that if they did, the image of a 
young man with brown eyes and brown hair and high cheekbones would mean nothing 
to them.
Seating himself before the pointboard, Trent danced his fingers across its 
surface. There were MPU jacks for more sophisticated access; Trent didnt 
bother.
The phonefield was flat. Sooner than Trent had expected, it flashed a blue 
connected at him from the bottom right of the field. Trent did not turn on the 
holocams at his end.
Tarin Schuylers face appeared in the field.
Trent said, Is she there?
Tarin stared into her holocams. Trent? Is it you?
Yes.
Yes, shes here. The woman was clearly disturbed. Shes really upset. What 
did you do to her?
I didnt give her a chance to say good-bye, said Trent briefly. She needed 
sleep. Tell her Ill call from Luna City. Tarin opened her mouth to speak 
again, and Trent disconnected her.
He sat quietly in the cubicle for just a moment.
Like the cab fare, like the price of his passage to Luna, Trent charged the call 
on Mohammed Vances private account; to the account of the man who was even now 
directing the search for him.
Trent left, and left the door to the cubicle open behind him.

Name? The guardan ordinary gendarme, not a Peaceforcerlooked at Trent 
impatiently. The line behind Trent was long, and getting longer with every 
moment.
Vance, said Trent. Mohammed Vance. He handed the guard his ticket and his 
passport. The passport didnt identify Trent as a Peaceforcer, or even as a 
United Nations employee, though the ticket showed itself paid for by the Peace 
Keeping Force. Less than ideal work, but it was Bookers best; hed been, as he 
put it to Trent, rushed.
At her systerm, the guard was spending a considerable amount of time processing 
the ticket. At length, when the line behind Trent began to mutter, she looked up 
from her systerm, and said, loudly enough for those immediately behind Trent to 
hear, I can be even slower about this if I have to. The line quieted. Finally 
the guard returned to Trent. She gave back Trents passport and ticket.
She spent a disconcerting moment studying Trent.
Had Mick told him the truth, or not? At about this time, the holos shed taken 
of Trent should be sitting in a Syndic database, waiting for the morning for 
some Syndic Lord to look them over.
Assuming shed told the truth.
Trent looked back at the gate guard innocently, trying his best to look harmless 
and trustworthy.
Shuttle Pad Eight, said the guard. She smiled an unpleasant smile at Trent. 
Have a nice day.
Trent smiled back at her. One seventh of your life, he said politely, will be 
spent on Mondays.
He left without hurrying.
Gate C let onto the landing field proper. The skies had cleared slightly in the 
forty-five minutes that Trent had been inside the spaceport, and a few twinkling 
stars could be seen through patchy clouds. Outside, Trent looked for 
transportation. A nearby holo informed him that a spaceport cab would be by 
within twenty minutes to ferry him across the vast fields of steelstone to 
wherever his flight waited.
But Im already late, Trent told the sign. Forty meters away was a groundcar, 
a long black limousine with dark windows, and a license plate that said u.n. 88. 
Trent walked to it without pausing, and stopped by the door next to the front 
left-hand seat. In one smooth motion he popped his briefcase open and withdrew 
an object that vaguely resembled a tuning fork. He ran the forked end over the 
doors pressure pad, produced two barely audible beeps, reversed the tool and 
with the laser in its other end burned out the locklarm.
He had the door open in less time than the carcomp would have taken to compare 
his palmprint against its authorized list of users. Trent slid inside and closed 
the door behind him. Some of the people at the ferry terminal were watching the 
car with vague curiosity.
The car ran itself from processors located behind an access panel under the 
center of the front dashboard. Balancing his briefcase on his knees, Trent 
opened it to its complete extension. Fully half of the interior was taken up by 
a perfectly legal, and quite powerful, external processor board for his InfoNet 
link. The other half held an odd assortment of tools: a spot for his handheld, 
the circuit tracer with a laser at the other end, a small forest of 
microlectrics equipment, an antistatic package holding, after Bookers payment, 
five and a half terabytes of RTS; a nearly full reel of fineline, an almost 
empty strip of room-temperature superconductor, and one watertight squirt gun of 
excellent construction.
The cars brain was an ancient Motorola MC-GA64, running Purolator security 
firmware that was over five years old. Trent sprayed chipglue directly onto the 
processor, waited while it set and pressed the handhelds interface gently into 
the still-soft surface of the chipglue. Far less than a secondperhaps a quarter 
of a million nanoseconds in totalpassed while Johnny Johnny reached out and 
enfolded the processor, stole every data and instruction line in and out of the 
chip; not five seconds had passed before the car was rolling at an even thirty 
kph across the landing field toward the line of ships.
Trent was unable to find Shuttle Pad Eight.
It was 8:15, and Trents ship was supposed to leave at 8:15.
None of the launch pads were numbered.
Finally Trent stopped the limousine next to the one spaceship that had a person 
standing in front of it. Thinking back, Trent was almost certain that he had 
been unable to see inside the limousine, when he had been standing outside of 
it. He squirmed into the back over the top of the seats, straightened his coat 
and opened the left rear passengers door.
The ship was easily the largest craft within a quarter of a kilometer. Its 
landing ramp was still down. Trent stepped from the car, and walked over to the 
person standing in front of the ramp.
Hello, said Trent. Is this Shut  uhm, Number Eight?
By no conceivable stretch of the imagination was the craft in front of him a 
shuttle.
The SpaceFarer took a step toward Trent, surveying Trent with cold eyes. His 
look told Trent that he was the greater of two evils. Any two evils. The name on 
the shoulder of his gray and green ships uniform read lt. zinth. One of the 
largest hand masers Trent had ever seen was holstered at his right hip. 
Lieutenant Zinths eyes were exactly level with Trents. Youre Vance.
Trent blinked. Yes. Oh yes of course.
Meter-high letters, bright green against the gray-silver of the ships hull, 
said, the captain sir dominic flandry. The SpaceFarer nodded.  Sieur Vance, 
you are late. Lift-off was scheduled for 20:15 hours Capitol City time. It is 
now 20:19. He stared evenly at Trent.
I couldnt find the ship, Trent explained.
The SpaceFarer stood staring at Trent. The cold breeze off the ocean tugged at 
the lapels of his exquisitely tailored ships uniform. Finally he said, The 
ships launchpad position and name, Sieur Vance, are shown on the back of your 
ticket.
Oh. Trent turned the ticket in his hand over and looked at it. He looked back 
up at Lieutenant Zinth. Sorry. I was in such a hurry it didnt occur to me to 
look. Ive never been on a spaceship before, you know. This is all so exciting 
for me.
The look on the mans face did not alter at all. It is now, Sieur Vance, 
20:20.
Trent had never, ever, heard of a ship departing on time from Unification 
Spaceport. He offered the SpaceFarer his ticket.
The young man glanced at it. Deck two, Sieur Vance. Seat thirteen.
Trent said, Im not superstitious.
The SpaceFarer said quietly, with a glance at the Unification Councilors 
limousine that Trent had arrived in, With all due respect, Monsieur Vance, you 
are obviously a very powerful downsider. That means nothing aboard the Flandry. 
The SpaceFarers Collective is not a part of the United Nations, and you have no 
authority. Now you will please seat yourselfquickly.
Trent said to the SpaceFarer, Im not afraid of you.




4-
 ^  
The passenger bay aboard the Flandry was small, but safe. An afterthought of a 
converted cargo bay, it was near the exact center of the ship; on his way up in 
the lift, with Lieutenant Zinth glaring at him the entire time, Trent counted 
four separate bulkheads between the outer hull and the passenger compartment.
Zinth palmed open the hatch to the passengers compartment and Trent stepped 
through, looking around at the compartment and the passengers on the way to his 
seat. There were forty or fifty of them, mostly men, speaking mostly in French, 
already strapped into their acceleration couches for lift.
Seat 13 was next to seat 14. In seat 14 there was a lovely young lady.
Hi, said Trent cheerfully. He strapped himself in, and waited while the seat 
reclined. He put his briefcase in the safety web under the seat. Im Trent the 
thief. Is there anything I can steal for you?
The woman in the seat next to him was young, somewhere in her early twenties. 
She had dark, sun-streaked brown hair that reached her shoulder blades in one 
long braid and looked as though it wanted to try for the small of her back. 
Inquisitive brown eyes and tanned, absolutely perfectly flawless skin, what skin 
was meant to be, complemented this extravagance. She looked up from the handheld 
she was reading on and looked Trent over coolly. She spoke carefully, with a 
distinct French accent. That is not funny.
No? said Trent instantly. Then how about this? He tucked his thumbs into the 
corners of his mouth and stretched his cheeks into a clown face, eyes bugging 
out, tongue lolling.
The woman stared blankly at him for a moment and then bit her lip, looking away 
from him. No. That is not funny either.
Trent looked at the woman curiously. He took his fingers out of his mouth and 
wiped them on his pants. You know, people almost always at least smile at that 
one. Is something wrong?
You are late, she said flatly.
In French, a voice came over the outspeaker and informed the passengers that the 
craft was in motion. The message was followed almost immediately by a sudden 
jerk, and then a low rumbling sound, as the port tugs began towing the Flandry 
into launch position. The acceleration chair Trent sat in vibrated strongly.
It wasnt my fault, Trent explained.
As you say. The woman turned away from him, to her handheld.
So I cant steal anything for you?
She looked up from the handheld slowly. She looked Trent over as though she were 
considering calling for a gendarme. No, she said at last, I am afraid not. I 
am not poor.
Whats that got to do with it?
After a moments thought, the woman turned her handheld off and put it under her 
seat in the safety web. Is this not a Robin Hood procedure? No, wait, she 
corrected herself, Robin Hood routine. To steal from the rich, and give to the 
poor?
Dont be obscene. Trent tried to relax in his chair. Im a capitalist. I did 
have Merry Men once, he said as an afterthought, but I had to get rid of them. 
They were gloomy sons of bitches.
The alert brown eyes studied him. Oh?
Didnt laugh at my jokes.
She nodded as though he had said something meaningful. Why were you late for 
lift?
Her tone of voice was flat, inquisitive. And she wasstudying him. Trent paused 
a second, wondering why the routine was going over so badly.
Trent said, Are you sure I was late?
You were late for the flight.
People keep telling me that.
They held the ship for you.
Did they? asked Trent curiously.
Yes.
That was nice of them.
Why were you late?
Its a long story.
Excuse me?
They held me at the gate, and then I got lost, Trent told her.
Lost?
I couldnt find the ship.
It is a big ship.
But there was no number.
The woman said blankly, Excuse me?
Trent said, Its really a long story. There were approximately fifty people in 
the passengers compartment of The Captain Sir Dominic Flandry. Something about 
the other passengers, a general air of alertness, made Trent uneasy.
Oh. She looked at him curiously. My name is Melissa; Melissa du Bois.
The ships outspeakers came alive and in French told the passengers that they 
should prepare for acceleration shortly. Hello, Melissa du Bois, said Trent. 
May I have the pleasure of seducing you?
Melissa du Bois looked briefly startled, and then actually smiled, dimpling, and 
looked about sixteen. No.
What?
Perhaps on some other occasion, Trent the thief. It might beindiscreet, yes? 
Yes, indiscreet under the present circumstances.
Does that mean no?
Yes.
Oh.
Where are you headed, Trent?
The Moon, said Trent. Luna. I hear its lovely this time of year, when the 
farsiders take their annual baths.
Melissa lay back in her seat and closed her eyes, as the voice on the intercom 
began marking off five-second increments toward lift-off, starting at sixty and 
working backward. I am going to L-5, myself.
Trent sat upright, very slowly. L-5? Spacebase One?
The tone of his voice did not penetrate to her, although a man across the aisle 
looked at Trent oddly. Yes, L-5. I am going to the training base for PKF Elite 
at L-5. Her eyes were still closed, her voice quiet and calm; she did not see 
the look of utter horror that had descended upon Trents features.
Trent opened his mouth twice before the words would come out.
He said, Youre a Peaceforcer.
Yes. I have only been PKF for four years, and I have already qualified for the 
Elite. She did look over at him then, and smiled at him again. I think it is 
the only thing I have ever done that impressed my father. My mother cried when 
she found out. They are very proud.
Im sure they are. Trent looked around the small cabin, at the healthy, 
relaxed, alert group of French men and women. The rest of this group; 
yourehe almost strangled on the wordswith them?
Yes. We are the top one twentieth of one percent of all the PKF on Earth. She 
added, It surprised us all that you got a seat. We chartered this ship over a 
month ago. You must have influence; you bumped an officer from the seat you are 
in. The voice on the intercom said softly, Ten seconds to lift. Oh, no, 
said Trent. He lay back in the acceleration couch; the webbing came up and 
embraced him. Oh my God no.
Lying flat on his back, he could not see Melissa du Boiss expression at all, 
but despite her accent he heard the surprise in her voice. Trent? Are you 
afraid? Yes, said Trent. Very, very much. The outspeaker voice said, We 
are lifting. The Captain Sir Dominic Flandry lifted at just under six 
gravities; breathing was difficult enough, and silence was practically enforced 
for several minutes. Trent was terribly, horribly glad.
During the approximately four minutes Trent spent lying on his back, weighing 
nearly six times as much as he was used to, he decided two things.
The first was that he was never again going to have Booker Jamethon tell a 
scheduling program that he was a high-ranking Peaceforcer official.
The second was that in his entire life, without any exceptions at all, he had 
never ever felt more stupid.
At slightly less than one gravity acceleration, with twenty minutes delay at 
turnover, the trip to L-5, in Lunar orbit sixty degrees ahead of the Moon, took 
nearly four and a half hours.
When the acceleration had died back to just below one gravity, Trent took his 
briefcase from underneath the couch, opened it a crack, took out his InfoNet 
link and closed the case again quickly.
In the seat next to him, Melissa du Bois was watching him curiously.
He hooked his handheld into the dataline access plug in the arm of his seat. A 
holofield sprang into existence just above it. There was a single gray traceset 
trode tucked into the arm of the seat along with a single gray earphone, snaked 
to the seat so that they could not be stolen by people like Trent. Trent hooked 
up and requested a laser link to the InfoNet Relay Station at Halfway. The ship 
was still near enough Earth that there was no perceptible delay connecting to 
the InfoNet; Trent closed his eyes and went Inside.
 MINIMAL RF MODULATION, SHIP FREQUENCIES  SHIP BUSINESS  SCALE UP INTO 
PRIVATE INSKIN FREQUENCIES; SILENCE  UP AGAIN, PEACEFORCER ELITE MONITOR BANDS; 
SILENCE 
It was silent except on ship frequencies. Either none of the Peaceforcers in the 
compartment had inskins, or they had them and werent using them.
The Peaceforcers had finally held a news conference concerning Trent; there were 
eight major news Boards following the story of the hunt for Emile Garons 
killer. NewsBoard, the third Board Trent scanned, had the information he needed. 
The first section of the NewsBoard story was simply a recounting of the 
circumstances of Emile Garons death, as described by the Peaceforcers. The 
story went on to describe the steps the Peaceforcers were taking in their search 
for the murderer; according to NewsBoard, the average Peaceforcer had not 
learned of Emile Garons death until nearly two oclock that afternoon, and the 
Peaceforcers aboard the Flandry, on detached duty awaiting transfer to L-5, 
probably did not know about it at all.
Certainly Melissa du Bois did not.
The next thing Trent did was pull up the Flandrys listed ports of call: Mars, 
via Luna City, via the United Nations Peace Keeping Force Base at Lagrange Five.
I wonder why Booker didnt mention that to me, Trent said softly, chewing 
thoughtfully on his lower lip.
PROBABLY DIDNT WANT YOU TO WORRY, said Johnny Johnny through the traceset.
Melissa said, Trent?
Yes, I am, said Trent definitely.
She started to say something, then shook her head. Never mind. What are you 
doing?
Trent shut off the handheld and looked up at her as the holofield faded. Excuse 
me?
Melissa seemed to be searching for words. That was  inequietante  I do not 
know the word.
Odd?
Uncanny. I have never seen anyone pull data up onto an InfoNet handheld like 
that. The field, itblurredas the data flowed by. How could you understand?
Trents thoughts spun briefly, an engine with the load removed. Oh, yes. He 
leaned toward Melissa. Actually, in real life when Im not being Trent the 
thief, Im the youngest member of Secretary General Eddores private webdancing 
staff. He added as an afterthought, My parents are very proud of me.
Trent had never had parents.
Carl Castanaveras, whom Trent had called father, had been killed by 
Peaceforcers.
Suzanne Montignet and Malko Kalharri, who were the architect and the will behind 
Project Supermanthe man and woman who had raised the men and women who had 
raised Trentthey too had also died at the hands of Peaceforcers.
With the exception of Denice Castanaveras and possibly her brother, everybody 
Trent had grown up with had been killed by Peaceforcers.
Thats nice, said Melissa du Bois.
Trent smiled at Melissa du Bois the Peaceforcer. Isnt it?
He lay back in his seat then, tightening the straps slightly to keep himself in 
place.
He slept the sleep of utter exhaustion.

More than a thousand years later, when the second largest religion in the 
Continuing Time was the religion which had grown from the seeds sown by The 
Exodus Bible, children and adults, human and otherwise, on tens of millions of 
worlds, read Melissa du Boiss account of her first meeting with Trent.
He had no equals, save, in some ways, Mohammed Vance, the man who hunted him for 
all those years. He was very young when I first met him, and improvising as he 
went. The meticulous preparation for which he later became known was not so 
evident when I first met himnot surprisingly, of course.
He was running for his life, from us.
I think I did not know the meaning of the word humility, then. I was one of the 
best of the PKF, and I did know it. Before Trent I had never failed at anything.

Some two hours later Trent awoke to free fall, to silence.
The lights in the compartment had been dimmed. The bulkhead which Trent and 
Melissas seats were lined up against now seemed to have vanished; a holograph 
displayed upon its surface showed deep space, blazing white and yellow and blue 
stars against the purest blackness Trent had ever seen.
Many of the Peaceforcers were sleeping. A few were auditing text on their 
handhelds, the pages glowing in midair; other Peaceforcers were simply looking, 
hypnotized, at the holograph of deep space.
Trent played back the excerpts his handheld had recorded for him while he was 
asleep. NewsBoard had nothing of note since his last audit, but the Electronic 
Times had just posted a story saying that there were rumors circulating to the 
effect that the murdered Peaceforcer in New York City had actually been a member 
of the Peaceforcer Elite. The Electronic Times was not absolutely certain, but 
they thought that a Peaceforcer Elite had never been murdered in the line of 
duty before.
Melissa du Bois said sleepily, Its lovely, isnt it?
Yes. Yes, it is. Looking at the young Peaceforcers profile, as she watched 
the glowing stars, Trent was not at all surprised by the sudden realization of 
how desperately he wanted to take her to bed.
When I was very young, I thought I would be an astronomer. Live on farside at 
one of the observatories; Zvezdagrad perhaps, Star City at Tsiolkovsky Crater. 
My parents indulged me, bought me a telescope and set it up on the balcony on 
the third floor. She sighed. I had no skill for it, not the math, and not 
really the inclination. My father is PKF Elite; after my brother died he wanted 
very much for me to follow him in the service. She smiled at him, somewhat 
diffidently. You listen well. What did you want to be as a child?
Trent intentionally did not use the word Player. A webdancer. Do you regret 
itbeing a Peaceforcer, I mean?
As opposed to what? she said evenly.
I dont know. A clown? Did you ever want to be a clown in the circus?
Melissa du Bois blinked abruptly, swiftly, and then laughed. No. But I did, the 
first time I saw the Ringling Brothers circus, I wanted to be one of the women 
who swung on the trapezes and got caught by the beautiful boys. I think I was 
twelve. She looked sideways at Trent again. What did you want to be when you 
were twelve?
Thirteen.
What was your childhood likeyou are American?
There was hardly-point in denying it. Yes.
Growing up in the OA, she said slowly, were you taught to hate us?
Taught? No.
She did not seem to catch the distinction. Where did you grow up?
New York. Not far from Capitol City, Its how I ended up on the Secretary 
Generals webdancer staff.
Trent thought she asked the question quite seriously. What was it like, your 
childhood?
Depraved.
She thought about this for several seconds. You mean deprived? she said 
carefully.
Sure, said Trent cheerfully, that too. Without any hesitation at all he 
continued, Tell me more about your childhood. Ive never been to France at 
all.
You are too polite. We
Id really like to hear about it. Melissa met his eyes quickly, and Trent said 
simply, Please?
They talked for nearly two solid hours while a cabin full of Peaceforcers slept 
around them.
Melissa du Bois had been born and raised in Narbonne, a small town in southern 
France, near the Gulf of Lions in the Mediterranean Sea. Her father had owned a 
house right on the beach; she had acquired her current tan there, while on leave 
preparatory to reporting for duty at L-5.
Ive always wanted to go to the South Seas, myself, Trent told her. There are 
beaches in New York, but they dont count, the sand is gray. The South Seasone 
of the French Polynesian islands, maybe. Live on an island somewhere and sleep 
in the sun on the beach. He grinned at her. So instead Im going to visit 
Luna, where if you step outside to get a tan you blow up and freeze to death and 
fry all at once.
Melissa had actually been to L-5 before, three years previously. She and her 
parents had toured it briefly on their way to Luna for a vacation; her parents 
first vacation following her fathers retirement from the PKF, Melissas last 
vacation before joining. On the Moon they had stayed at the Hotel Copernicus; 
Melissa du Bois had learned to fly there, at the Luna City Flight Caverns.
I wanted to go to New Vegas, but Melissa shook her head with a rather sad 
smile. New Vegas is in Free Luna. My father got very angry at the suggestion 
that we visit. I think he wanted to pretend that there was no such thing as Free 
Luna. She paused a moment and then added, My brother was stationed on Luna in 
2064, during the Fizzle War between United Nations Luna and Free Luna. She 
paused again and said without inflection, He died.
Trent spent most of the time listening, listening to the details of a life that 
had been so unlike his own that at times he was not certain that some of the 
things she told him, with an entirely straight face, were not jokes. Had her 
parents really forbidden her to continue seeing her first boyfriend merely 
because he had been arrested once? And if so, why?
During the entire time they talked, Melissa du Bois never once used the word 
Peaceforcer.
There is a tradition of public service in my family; my father is PKF Elite, 
and both of my uncles were PKF.
I understand, said Trent slowly, the desire  for public service. To help 
make things better. To say to the world, I have been here, and I made a 
difference. 
Melissa smiled at him dazzlingly. Yes. You do understand.
But theres more than one way to make a difference. Accountantstalk to an 
accountant some day, and hell tell you how critical what he does is, how 
without him commerce would grind to a halt. The same for salespeople, or 
engineers. Or babychasers, for that matter.
Melissa du Bois nodded, thoughtfully. I would hate to work for the Ministry of 
Population Control. But you are right, it is necessary.
And computerists Trent grinned. A good filter routine, an Image description 
placed in the public Boards, things like that, I could make a very good case 
that such things contribute as much to real improvement as, say, a Peaceforcer 
with a gun.
Really? She seemed to be considering the idea.
The Peaceforcers are more visible. ButPeaceforcers are damage control, 
Melissa. They dont build spacescrapers or roads or computers, they dont raise 
food, they dont create art. They just stop wars from happening.
One would think, said Melissa slowly, that this would be enough to ask of any 
public body.
Damage control is important. Somebody has to do it.
Melissa du Bois chewed at her lower lip, looking at Trent.
Yes, she said finally. Somebody does.
Eight minutes and fifteen seconds before ETA Spacebase One at L-5, Melissa said, 
Trent, I have been thinking.
Is that unusual?
What is your last name?
Half a dozen answers popped into his mind. Smith, he said, without perceptible 
pause.
I was wondering, and she hesitated, would you mind if I looked for you when 
I am back downside? I would like to see you again if I can. It cannot be soon, 
she said hurriedly, for I will be on restricted duty at Spacebase One for the 
next six months, and when I do go downside  well, there are people who are 
prejudiced against the Elite. You are a very nice boy  if you wouldnt mind 
Her voice trailed off.
Trent said, A nice boy?
You are cute, she shrugged, and funny. You have made me laughshe paused, 
thinkingtwice.
Not dashing?
No. She shook her head definitely.
How about handsome? Or romantic?
No. Cute, yes, and witty.
Okay. Trent nodded. Ill take that.
Good. I can reach you through the office of the Secretary General?
Oh. Yes, certainly of course. Sure.
Good. She smiled at him with a shyness that Trent had never seen on the 
streets of New York in any girl older than ten. It will be something to look 
forward to when I come back.
Trent nodded wordlessly. He felt like the greater of two evils, any two evils.
He sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts. Presumably the Peaceforcers would 
disembark here, the SpaceFarers would load whatever cargo they were taking on, 
if any, and the ship would proceed to Luna. Trent wondered how long it would all 
take.
The announcement, at four minutes and five seconds to ETA Spacebase One, was 
given in French.
The sound level in the passenger cabin jumped sharply.
The Peaceforcers were talking to each other in a babble of swift French which 
Trent could not follow at all.
Trent said to Melissa, What did it say?
Didnt you hear the announcement?
The announcement? Yes.
They just made an announcement, Melissa told him.
I heard it. What did it say?
Dont you speak French at all?
A little, but I wasnt listening.
You just told me you heard the announcement.
I heard it, Trent explained, but I wasnt listening.
Oh.
What did it say?
What did the announcement say? Melissa du Bois repeated.
Yes, said Trent very clearly, the announcement.
Two things. It said we would be quarantined for three hours, and it said there 
was a private message for us on PKF Band Two.
What did that message say?
Suddenly the wariness was back in her eyes. I cannot tell you. Why do you want 
to know?
Uhm. Curiosity?
It said Melissa broke off, studying Trent as though for the first time. 
Never mind.
Oh, no. Well, said Trent mildly, if you wont tell me why were being 
quarantined, I guess Ill go find out for myself. He smiled at her while 
unstrapping himself from the reclining seat. He replaced his handheld in his 
briefcase, and, hooking his foot into one of the rows of handgrips that ran 
along the deck, got out of his seat, clutching his briefcase in one hand.
Melissa said quietly, Where do you think you are going with your luggage?
The smile was frozen on Trents face. To find out whats going on. Dont worry, 
stay here, Ill be right back.
Trent pulled his way along the grips, briefcase tucked beneath one arm, to the 
hatch that connected the rest of Deck Two to the passengers cabin.
Trent did not intend to be right back.
The Peaceforcer nearest the exit, a kindly-seeming Frenchman in his 
mid-thirties, said, Young man, I have dealt with the SpaceFarers Collective 
before. Read the sign, and do not make the mistake I think you are about to 
make.
The holo said, Except for Visits to the Restroom, Passengers Will Remain Seated 
Until Otherwise Instructed.
Trent could not find the word please anywhere on the sign.
The kindly Peaceforcer, who was probably the oldest of those in the cabin, said, 
You should really sit down again.
Without an up, said Trent, there can be no down. He opened the pressure 
hatch and pulled himself through, dogging the hatch shut behind him.
Trent had no use for kindly Peaceforcers, none.
Trent floated in the corridor immediately outside the passengers cabin, trying 
to think of what to do next, rationally considering his alternatives.
None came to mind. After a moment Trent realized that he was upside downthe 
corridors local vertical pointed the other way. He righted himself, to see if 
it would help.
It didnt help.
Vance!
Trent found a grip, and turned around to face the sound. Lieutenant Zinth came 
floating down into the corridor through a hatch leading to the deck immediately 
above. He was clearly very angry. He did not bother to align himself into the 
local vertical. With his face staring upside down into Trents, he snarled, The 
Captain wants you. Now.
Trent said, Really?
What the hell have you quarantined our ship for?
What?
What the hell
Wait, wait. I heard you the first time. Trent stared into Zinths upside-down 
face. Three hours, right?
You should bloody well know, you
Ordered the quarantine, said Trent. Right. Im Mohammed Vance. Of course I 
did. Theres a chase ship coming from Earth, he said to Zinth, and its going 
to be here in three hours?
Zinth screamed, What the hell have you quarantined our ship for?
Trent let go of his briefcase. With a flick of his foot he pushed himself closer 
to the SpaceFarer. He wrapped his left hand firmly through a grip near Zinth, 
and with his right, pointed behind Zinth. Because of that?
The SpaceFarer twisted his head to look back down the empty corridor.
Trent aimed for a spot five centimeters to the right of the exact geometrical 
center of Lieutenant Zinths chin, and, swinging with the full strength of which 
he was capable, broke his hand against it.
Zinths head bounced once against the side of the access-way. Almost instantly, 
beads of blood began drifting away from the spot where Trent had struck him; 
Trent grabbed Zinth by his coat and pulled the SpaceFarer down into the corridor 
with him.
Trent remembered how, when they had both been together downside, standing up, 
the young SpaceFarer had been exactly his height.
To nobody in particular, Trent said, I think I broke my hand.
Retrieving his briefcase, with the body very clumsily in tow, Trent began 
searching for a John.
Muttering to Zinth, I dont usually do this sort of thing on such short 
acquaintance, you know, Trent began stripping the SpaceFarers uniform from 
him.
After searching for a few seconds, Trent found a first-aid kit in the bathroom. 
Removing Zinths ship coat and shirt, he used the adhesive tape to bind the 
SpaceFarers wrists together behind him. He affixed another strip to the 
SpaceFarers mouth.
It was harder than Trent had expected to change clothes with Zinth. Among other 
things, the John was clearly intended for only one person at a time.
After taking Zinths pants from him, Trent stared blankly for a moment at the 
SpaceFarers underwear.
Trent could not recall ever having seen anything quite that shade of red before.
When he was fully dressed, Trent turned Zinths maser over in his hands for 
several seconds. His face held no expression as he examined it. Finally he found 
a slot on the butt of the weapon; he turned it, and a small cage containing the 
charge pack dropped out of the butt. He removed the charge pack from its cage, 
replaced the cage inside the maser, and bolstered the weapon.
As Trent left the bathroom, there was a gentle bump, transmitted through the 
hull of the ship; The Captain Sir Dominic Flandry had docked at Lagrange Five, 
the stronghold of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force in space.
They don ketch Brer Rab the thief, no, no, mumbled Trent to himself, and 
headed down to the coupling rings on Deck One.




5-
 ^  
Excerpted from the Name Historians Looking Backwards From the Year 3000; pub. 
3018, Alternities Press, CU:110.00 Zaradin.
Spacebase OneColloquially, Peaceforcer Heaven. Constructed 2019 by a 
consortium of SpaceFarer Companies known as the L-5 Development Co. The United 
Nations Peace Keeping Force assumed control in 2025, necessitating extensive 
rebuilding. Further expanded 2060; destroyed in the Peaceforcer Rebellion (which 
see), 2103.
Spacebase One, like Almundsen Military Base at L-4, sat atop one of the two 
useful, gravitationally stable points in the double-planet Earth-Luna system. 
L-4 and L-5, aside from being gravitationally stablei.e., objects placed in 
those locations tended to stay therewere also, unlike L-l, L-2, and L-3, high 
ground. Lunar libration points Four and Five were situated atop the gravity 
wells of both Earth and Luna, and from those positions the entire Earth-Luna 
system could be easily controlled. It is hardly surprising that Space Force and 
the PKF ended up splitting those locations between them.
Spacebase Ones first use, as a PKF Elite surgery and training facility, dates 
to 2046; between the years 2046 and 2088 the facility regularly processed 
approximately fifty Elite candidates every six months. In 2088, due to the 
facilitys increasing vulnerability to sabotage, its use as a training station 
for PKF Elite was discontinued. Spacebase Fourteen at Saturn, as of 2088, 
assumed that function.
In 2069, there were approximately sixty-five hundred Peaceforcers stationed at 
Spacebase One, an estimated two hundred of whom were Elite. The Commanding 
Officer, as of 2069, when Trent the Uncatchable began his historic run, was an 
unfortunate by the name of Etienne Gericault.

The cargo bay was huge; it occupied the entire first deck over the engines.
Despite the fact that Trent had hurried as quickly as he was able, there were 
already three SpaceFarers standing at the coupling rings that led into Spacebase 
One, their feet anchored to the deck by magnetic slippers tied over their boots.
Pulling his way carefully along the grips, Trent made his way to within fifteen 
meters of the three SpaceFarers before being noticed.
Two of the three were women, one of the two a silver-haired woman who looked 
older than anyone Trent had ever seen before; older than Old Jack, older than 
Beth Davenport. She said sharply, Youre not and then broke off.
Trent had the maser out, pointing at them.
Given the circumstances, the womans voice was remarkably calm. She took a step 
toward Trent. What have you done to Lieutenant Zinth?
I told him to look behind himself and he did, so then I slugged him. Dont 
SpaceFarer kids learn that trick?
What have you done to Lieutenant Zinth?
Hes in the John on Deck Two. Unconscious, but alive. Trent gestured to the 
lone man. You. Take your slippers off, throw them to me. Slowly.
The womans uniform bore the name patch cpt. saunders. She moved closer to 
Trent, two shuffling steps across the deck. I take it that you are not Mohammed 
Vance.
No, I lied about that. Sorry. The first of the slippers came sailing toward 
Trent. He donned it, then the second, one-handed. Please, Captainno closer. 
Move away from the coupling rings.
It seemed to Trent that the three of them were moving very slowly. As they 
shuffled away from the coupling rings, Captain Saunders said, What are you 
going to do?
I dont know. I thought about trying to steal the Flandry, but I decided 
against it because its too big.
Captain Saunders said evenly, That was sensible.
I figured I would steal a Peaceforcer ship instead. Its not like theyre not 
already pissed at me.
Captain Saunders asked, What do they want you for?
Trent walked cautiously across the deck, accustoming himself to the magnetic 
soles, keeping the three covered with the useless maser. They think I killed 
one of their Elite.
Captain Saunders stiffened. Oh? Thats what this is all about, then. Thats why 
the quarantine.
They didnt tell you that you had a murderer on board?
They havent told us a damn thing.
Sorry. I dont suppose youd be interested in giving me sanctuary?
Captain Saunders looked Trent over, and shook her head almost reluctantly. Not 
a chance. Nobody has ever killed a Peaceforcer Elite before, you know. The 
Erisian Claw keeps trying.
Trent stood with his back to the closed coupling rings. I was afraid of that.
Theyll make an example of you.
Theyre trying. From the pocket of Lieutenant Zinths coat he withdrew his 
squirt gun and without ceremony shot each of the three SpaceFarers in the face, 
once.
They looked more stunned than if he had masered them to death.
Trent waited while unconsciousness claimed them. In free fall, their bodies 
slowly curled into fetal balls, the two women held in place by their magnetic 
slippers. When they were definitely out of it, Trent pushed them into a darkened 
section of the cargo bay, and left them there. He wet his finger and held it up 
in midair, checking to make sure that there was an air current to bring them 
oxygen. He returned to the coupling rings, briefcase in hand.
The Peaceforcers waiting on the other side of the coupling rings likely did not 
have pictures of Trent, but it occurred to Trent that the briefcase might well 
be included in descriptions of him. Finally he simply shook his head. Johnny 
Johnny was in the briefcase; Trent had lost his first Image, Ralf the Wise and 
Powerful, and he was not about to lose his second.
Letting an air of outraged officiousness descend upon him, in good SpaceFarer 
style, Trent palmed the pressure pad next to the coupling rings. The exterior 
and then the interior rings dilated open.
Three Peaceforcers, standing at attention on the other side of the coupling 
rings, looked briefly startled. Their local vertical was about fifteen degrees 
off the Flandrys; Trent, compensating, catwalked on a slight diagonal through 
the coupling rings, so that he entered Spacebase One on their vertical.
Two of the Peaceforcers, in uniform, were pointing masers at Trent as he came 
through. Trent dismissed them out of hand; their reactions were far too slow.
The third Peaceforcer, in a blue jumpsuit without shoes, with a pair of magnetic 
slippers tied at his ankles, completing a yawn as Trent came through, did 
nothing but raise an eyebrow and Trent froze absolutely motionless.
Emile had come back from the dead.
For several seconds his eyes insisted on interpreting it that way. The man was a 
tall Frenchman with unruly dark hair, and eyes every bit as expressive, almost 
haunted, as Garons had been. The resemblance, down to the stiff skin that 
marked the man for the brass balls he was, was remarkable.
Trent shook it off with an effort, glared at the senior Peaceforcer in the best 
imitation of Lieutenant Zinth that he was capable of. When he spoke, his voice 
was half an octave lower than normal. First Lieutenant Nelson Zinth of The 
Captain Sir Dominic Flandry. Trent actually had no idea what Zinths first name 
was. Ignoring the weapons trained on him, he advanced two steps toward the 
cyborg. They havent told us a damn thing, Captain Saunders had said. What is 
the meaning of this idiocy?
Lieutenant, said the Peaceforcer Elite pleasantly enough, I am Elite First 
Sergeant Roger Colbert, at your service. He spoke American English with 
absolutely no accent whatsoever. May I inquire, Lieutenant, why youve chosen 
to ignore our quarantine?
Your quarantine, cyborg, said Trent flatly, isnt worth the saliva to spit on 
if the Flandry chooses not to honor it. You have yet to give us any reason for 
this foolishness.
Lieutenant Zinth, said Colbert equably, not raising his voice at all, this is 
a matter of internal United Nations security. There is a Level Three Earth-Luna 
alert in effect, and we can allow no exceptions. The Elite stood before Trent, 
completely immobile. Please return to your ship. The two junior Peaceforcers 
were still pointing their hand masers at Trent.
Who is your commanding officer, Sergeant Colbert?
I report directly to Commander Gericault, Lieutenant.
If you are unwilling or unable to explain the meaning of this quarantine to 
me, said Trent, then I must request that you allow me to see Commander 
Gericault. Presumably he has the authority to explain your bizarre behavior?
There was a long moment of silence. Lieutenant, said Colbert finally, I can 
tell you this much. The quarantine will last no more than three hours; we are 
awaiting a high-speed chase ship from Earth. We have reason to believe that one 
of your passengers is a murderer.
I think, said Trent after a moment, that I must speak to Commander Gericault. 
You, he said to the Peaceforcer Elite, are not listening to me.
Colbert spoke slowly, as though to a child. Oh?
Peaceforcer, we have some fifty-odd passengers this run. They are all 
Peaceforcers; your own new Elite candidates. If you wish to name one of them 
murderer, Id hardly dream of arguing with you. Trent grinned at the startled 
look on the faces of the Peaceforcers behind Colbert. But whether it is three 
hours or three minutes, the Flandry is not subject to the United Nations or its 
Peaceforcers, and if you think otherwise youre in for a hell of a shock. Trent 
held Colberts eyes. I will have either a complete explanation from Commander 
Gericault, or, Elite First Sergeant Colbert, I will recommend to Captain 
Saunders that we continue on to Lunaand you can pick up your murdering 
Peaceforcers from Luna yourself. Its entirely up to you.
Colbert held his head slightly to one side, studying Trent as though Colbert did 
not know quite what to make of him. Bringing you to Commander Gericault would 
be  difficult. My orders are very clear, Lieutenant; were to let nobody out of 
this ship.
You can hardly keep the ship itself from going on to Luna, Sergeant. I doubt 
thatll please whoevers coming on the chase ship.
Are you actually threatening to drag over fifty Peaceforcers to Luna against 
their will? Sergeant Colbert looked genuinely intrigued by the concept. I 
think that might be construed as kidnapping, which in turn might be construed as 
an act of war between the SpaceFarers Collective and the United Nations.
Trent took a long, deep breath. He actually closed his eyes, and then looked up 
and met Colberts gaze head-on.
Trent said, Lets find out.
It hung in the balance for long, unending moment.
Trent remembered auditing an editorial in the Electronic Times which suggested 
that the Unification Council would not be the slightest bit displeased to find a 
good pretext for a war to extend the Unification of Earth to encompass Mars and 
the Belt and the SpaceFarers.
In a voice that was almost bemused, Colbert said, Gallois, Chanton. No one else 
comes through this lock. Kill them if you must. The Peaceforcer smiled at 
Trent, gently, and said, Come with me, Lieutenant, and I will take you to 
Commander Gericault.
It was 2:30 a.m., Eastern Seaboard Time, August 14, 2069.
One step behind, Trent followed the silent Peaceforcer through the largely 
deserted corridors of Peaceforcer Heaven.
It was hard for Trent to comprehend that only a day and a half ago he had been 
standing at the top of an unfinished spacescraper while an Elite that could have 
been this ones brother had attempted to kill him.
Peaceforcer Elite Colbert walked briskly, without looking back to insure that 
Trent was following him; Trent was just as pleased. He was not walking as 
gracefully as Colbert, surely not as gracefully as a SpaceFarer, with years of 
experience in free-fall, ought to walk. They walked through the core of 
Spacebase One, through the central cylinder around which the great outer wheels 
revolved. The central cylinder was in free-fall; at the rims, artificial gravity 
was provided through angular momentum. The wheels were not rigidly attached to 
the central cylinder; rather, they rotated independently of it, and of each 
other. The North Wheel rotated clockwise as viewed from the north end of 
Spacebase One, and the South Wheel rotated counterclockwise as viewed from that 
same vantage point, to cancel the tendency that a single wheel would have had to 
impart rotational energy to the central cylinder. For the PKFs purposes, it was 
the best possible design; the central cylinder had to be in free-fall, for 
surgery, and therefore it could not rotate about its axis. On the other hand, 
gravity was a necessity for the newly created Elites, to condition themselves 
for the return to Earth, and at the rim, the 4.2-kilometer-wide wheels rotated 
to provide 920 centimeters per second squared acceleration, nearly Earths 980 
cepssa. The wheels were connected to the central cylinder by a complex elevator 
system that worked only at intervals of several minutes as the spokes that led 
from the central cylinder to the wheels made their slow, majestic sweeps around 
the central cylinders access points.
Trent watched where they went, memorizing their route. They were nearly to the 
spoke elevatorCommander Gericault, like all permanent inhabitants at L-5, 
tended to avoid the free-fall areas for any great length of timewhen Trent 
found what he was looking for: an InfoNet systerm with a full-sensory traceset, 
just inside the entrance to what looked for all the world like a mad scientists 
torture chamber.
They stood together in stony silence outside the elevator entrance, waiting for 
the rim elevator to arrive; occasionally, a Peaceforcer, passing by, would greet 
Colbert, and receive some word of reply. The Peaceforcers looked at Trents 
SpaceFarer uniform curiously. There were not many people about; Trent supposed 
that even here the cycle of night and day must be adhered to in some degree. It 
was not unreasonable that they would have chosen to orient their day by Capitol 
Citys.
At last the elevator arrived.
As the doors of the elevator curled up into a tight tube, Trent stepped in ahead 
of the Peaceforcer, transferring his briefcase from his left hand to his swollen 
right, tripping the catches in the process.
Roger Colbert the Peaceforcer Elite said, Quel? when Trent shot him in the 
face with the squirt gun.
The skin of a Peaceforcer Elite is not as absorbent as the skin of a normal 
human; as the doors to the elevator began uncurling, Trent just had time to 
dodge.
Light flared through the space where Trent had just been, in an actinic ruby 
flash of light that tore through the walls of the elevator.
As Colbert sagged into unconsciousness, the elevator began to lurch into motion. 
Trent stabbed frantically at the pressure point marked emergency stop; there was 
a brief pause, and Trent caught a whiff of burned meat, and then the elevator 
returned to its starting position.
The smell of burned meat grew stronger, and Trent traced it to its source.
Colbert had shot himself in the foot.
Trent pictured himself walking through Peaceforcer Heaven in a SpaceFarer 
uniform, asking for directions to the slipship bay. That wont do, he thought 
clearly.
The burn on Colberts foot looked ugly, but Trent honestly could not think of 
anything he could do for the man. He opened the elevator doors again and stepped 
through, letting the doors uncurl until they were nearly closed against his 
briefcase.
Trent stood in front of the elevator, waiting. A short, rather pretty woman in a 
PKF uniform came by shortly, and stopped, puzzled. Trent drew the squirt gun and 
shot her in the face, opened the elevator doors, stuffed her inside, and closed 
the elevator doors on his briefcase again.
Nearly half a minute passed before a pair came by, both of them men, neither of 
them within ten centimeters of Trents height. Trent shot them quickly, shoved 
them into the elevator. A voice immediately behind him said, in French, What 
are you doing? Trent turned swiftly to find himself looking into a pair of 
brilliant blue eyes: a female Peaceforcer in uniform, almost exactly his own 
height.
Trent said, Hello, and shot her quickly. He caught her as she went limp, 
dragged her back inside the elevator, and let the door close on them all.
Looking at his collection of unconscious bodies, Trent said, How utterly 
embarrassing.
The female Peaceforcers underwear wasnt as pretty as Lieutenant Zinths.
When he was fully dressed in her too-tight uniform, Trent stepped back out 
through the elevator door, and touched the pressure point marked down.
Moving rapidly down the corridor, he headed back toward the InfoNet systerm he 
had seen earlier.
A sign immediately inside the torture chamber said, Physical Therapy.
Briefcase held between his knees, Trent seated himself before the InfoNet 
systerm, jacked his handheld in, pulled on the systerms traceset, and closed 
his eyes.
Johnny Johnny unfolded into existence like a flower greeting the sun.
 HI, BOSS.
HI, JOHNNY.
WHERE ARE WE?
PEACEFORCER HEAVEN, LOGGED INTO A PEACEFORCER SYSTERM.
OH. BAD NEWS, BOSS,
TELL ME ABOUT IT.
AND SOME SLOW DAMN HARDWARE TOO, BOSS.
IM SORRY ABOUT THAT; THIS IS HOSPITAL EQUIPMENT, JOHNNY JOHNNY, NOT DATA WATCH. 
CAN YOU GET ME A MAP OF THE STATION?
HOLD ON A SECOND, IM AUDITING THE HELP FILES 
here we GO. A schematic of Spacebase One appeared floating three-dimensionally 
somewhere just behind Trents closed eyelids; a long fat cylinder enclosed by a 
pair of counterspinning wide fat doughnuts. A bright red spark appeared at the 
bottom of the image, followed by the legend, You Are Here.
SIX DIRECTIONS THEY USE, BOSS. UP, DOWN, NORTH, SOUTH, SPIN AND ANTISPIN. UP IS 
TOWARD THE CENTRAL CYLINDER, DOWN IS TOWARD GRAVITY, TOWARD THE WHEELS. SOUTH IS 
TOWARD THE SOUTH BAY, WHERE THE FLANDRY IS. NORTH IS TOWARD THE NORTH BAY, WHERE 
THE PEACEFORCER SHIPS ARE MOORED. SPIN IS THE DIRECTION THE NORTH WHEEL TURNS, 
ANTISPIN IS THE DIRECTION
THE SOUTH WHEEL TURNS, JOHNNY
Johnny paused. YOURE GOING TO STEAL A SHIP?
THATS THE IDEA.
THEYLL SHOOT YOU DEAD, BOSS. WEAPONS EMPLACEMENT, HERE. A green spot glowed 
some sixty meters away from the North Bay. LASERS, A MASS DRIVER GUN, AND FUSION 
MISSILES.
SHOW ME THE PILOTS LOCKER.
HERE.
Trent disengaged from the systerm, unjacked his handheld and stood to leave.
The Peaceforcer standing in the entrance was huge, at least fifty kilos heavier 
than Trent himself. He looked at Trent with a cold, measuring eye.
Trent said brightly, with his best accent, Bonjour.
In French, the huge Peaceforcer told Trent to see somebody about his uniform, 
that Trents appearance was entirely unacceptable.
Trent smiled at the man, thanked the man, and assured him that he would do so at 
the very first opportunity. He squeezed by the large man, who had not moved at 
all, and walked swiftly away down the corridor.
The corridor stretched away forever.
Trent walked through silence. The corridor ran the entire length of Spacebase 
One; Trent had no feel at all for how far he had gone down its length. Other 
walkways branched out from this one in all directions, up and down and to the 
sides. There were dilation rings every few meters. Trent found himself growing 
disoriented. Nothing gave any sense of up or down; no gravity, nothing in the 
architectural layout. One Peaceforcer came into view walking on the ceiling of a 
cross corridor, and another swept by Trent from behind, flying freely down the 
length of the passage, navigating with touches of hands and feet to the grips 
extruding from the walls. Once a Peaceforcer, sitting in midair at an 
intersection, face at right angles to Trents, looked at Trent oddly; Trent 
simply nodded to the man and kept walking, ostentatiously not hurrying, under 
the theory that suspicious people are people who act suspiciously.
Trent felt the mans gaze on the back of his neck as he walked away.
Only a frog Peaceforcer, he thought, would find something suspicious about bad 
tailoring.
His recently operated-upon knee was beginning to get sore, and his calves as 
well. Walking with magnetic slippers, in free-fall, was an entirely different 
matter from walking in gravity. He tried to find a rhythm for it, gliding along 
the way he had seen others doing, actually touching the deck with only the toes 
of the slippers, and was, he thought, getting the hang of it.
ALERT, ALERT! blared the voice.
Trent jerked to a stop, heart pounding. He found himself drifting in very nearly 
the exact geometrical center of the corridor, out of reach of grips on any side.
ALIEN IN THE INSTALLATION, REPEAT, UNAUTHORIZED ALIEN IN THE INSTALLATION; ALL 
PERSONNEL RETREAT TO SECURED AREAS. LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT, REPEAT, LOCKDOWN IN 
EFFECT. PERSONNEL IN CORRIDORS WILL BE SHOT WITHOUT WARNING. REPEAT, LOCKDOWN IN 
EFFECT.
Bastards! screamed Trent. Nobody at all answered him, and feeling terribly 
silly he waited while the gentle drift of the corridors air took him within 
grabbing distance of a grip. He did not try to walk again; he dug his toes into 
a pair of grips and kicked off down the corridor with all the strength that was 
in him.
He lost velocity only slowly; air friction alone was insufficient to impede him 
much. He was still moving at a fair clip when he saw his next Peaceforcer, 
walking down the middle of the corridor watching Trent fly toward him. The 
Peaceforcer showed little alarm at first, and then some alarm, and then 
considerable alarm, and then Trent hit him. They collided in a tangle of arms 
and legs; with the briefcase in his left hand Trent swung at the Peaceforcer, 
smashed the edge of the briefcase up against the Peaceforcers temple; the 
reaction sent Trent tumbling slowly backward to fetch up against the corridor 
wall. The Peaceforcers head bounced off the bulkhead with an audible thud. When 
Trent regained his orientation again, the Peaceforcer hung limp in midair, not 
moving at all. Tiny beads of blood were forming in the air around the spot where 
Trent had struck him. With something approaching panic Trent kicked over to 
where the Peaceforcer hung motionlessly, and checked the mans pulse; it was 
strong and even.
Thank you, said Trent to nobody in particular. He pulled the Peaceforcer to 
the nearest doorway, palmed it open, and shoved the man in.
And then the lights went out.
Trent heard his voice say, independent of him in the utter blackness, What a 
bad day.
Trent made his way slowly along the corridor, searching for doors by touch, 
feeling his way in the darkness by the grips and door recesses. He thought he 
had been very near the north end of the cylinder when the lights went out.
There was nobody in the first room Trent tried, and it was dark besides. The 
second, third, fourth, and fifth doors opened by Trent were also empty, also 
dark.
There were three people in the room that the sixth door opened onto, and the 
room was lit, well lit, shining with bright yellow light from the ceiling 
sunpaint.
In the second when the three men were turning to look at the opening door, Trent 
pushed through, maser in hand, screaming, Dont move!
Only one of the three was facing Trent; the other two were half-dressed, with 
their backs to him. Nobody moved.
Turn away from me.
The one Peaceforcer facing Trent stared at Trent, then at the maser in his hand, 
and then turned very carefully away.
If anybody does anything stupid, said Trent, just loudly enough for them to 
hear him, Im going to cut you clean in half.
Not one of the three so much as twitched. Transferring the useless maser to his 
right, useless hand, Trent pulled his squirt gun from his coat pocket with his 
left. Aiming carefully, Trent squirted each of the three on the back of the 
neck, making sure that the liquid touched skin each time.
When he finished, the squirt gun was entirely empty.
Then, for the first time, Trent looked around the room he found himself in.
It was small, about twenty meters by fifteen.
There were lockers along the bulkheads.
Trent tried to remember exactly how close he had been to the slipship bays when 
they turned out the lights in the corridors.
No, no, said Trent. This could not be the pilots locker. Good luck? Me? 
Trent touched one of the lockers, tentatively. No, he said decisively. A few 
beats later, he said questioningly, Yes? He looked at the locks on the 
lockerspalmprint activated, passive check circuitsand yelled, YES!
Halfway through the first row, he found a pressure suit that fit, donned it. He 
had the impression that he was not supposed to wear it over a SpaceFarer 
uniform; though the material of the pressure suit was soft and form-fitting, it 
felt tight in odd places. He had special difficulty getting the pressure suits 
boots on over the SpaceFarer boots he was wearing.
There was a holster on the right hip of the pressure suit.
Trent stared at it. A holster on a pressure suit? He looked in the locker he had 
taken the pressure suit from; there was a maser inside, restrained by an elastic 
strap. Trent shrugged, and filled the holster with the maser he had inherited 
from Lieutenant Zinth.
It took some examination before he figured out the helmet; it was supposed to 
hang on a snap just over his back, so that he could reach back and pull it 
forward, closed, in a single movement.
Mimicking the other pressure suits he had seen, Trent snapped the suits gloves 
on at the spot on his left hip which did not have a pistol holster.
One of the bodies in the locker with him had begun snoring, and Trent addressed 
the Peaceforcer: Good-bye, dear friends; good-bye. I must go; spaceship to 
steal; things to do.
Trent went to the door at the other end of the room, hopefully the door which 
let out onto the North Bay, opened the door and looked out.
A wide, broad area stood revealed, vaguely circular in shape, some forty meters 
in diameter, perhaps five meters high. Airlocks were arrayed around the 
perimeter of the circle; there were green lights over some of the airlocks, red 
lights over others. One airlock had a red light flashing over it.
Trent left, closing the door to the pilots locker room, turning the lights off 
as he did so.
Trent took three steps into the empty flight bay, marveling at his good luck.
On the fourth step, there was a light tug at his waist, and something improbably 
hard smashed into his ribs.
The impact lifted one of Trents feet from the floor. He reattached it slowly in 
the zero gravity, and turned to look into Lieutenant Zinths maser.
Melissa du Bois said, Hello, Trent the thief.
Trent had read once that after a certain number of shocks the nervous system 
became inured.
Trent had not reached that number yet. He said, Uh  uh
Melissa had both hands wrapped around the maser. Her knuckles were white on the 
handle. She said conversationally, Fifteen minutes ago I found out who you 
are. Her accent had thickened slightly under the stress. Thirteen minutes ago 
I finished reading our dossier on you; it is a fascinating document. Ten minutes 
ago I located a systerm, found North Bay, and headed here. She smiled at Trent. 
It was utterly without humor. Technically, I am AWOL. They would not give me a 
weapon either. She inclined her head very slightly. Thank you for the loan.
Trent said, Uh  Melissa Nothing was occurring to him.
You are an intriguing man, Trent the thief. Her cheeks were slightly flushed. 
Respected contract thief, very likely one of the twenty best Players alive
Ten.
and a man of wit and humor, reputed to be extremely skilled in unarmed combat. 
One of eight criminals who has ever destroyed a pursuing waldo; the only one who 
has ever escaped the PKF Detention Center in Capitol City; the only one ever to 
kill an Elite officer of the Peace Keeping Force.
Melissa, youre making
A mistake, I know, Trent the thief, you are innocent. You did not do it.
I didnt. It was an accident, Trent said, he fell. He looked at her, met her 
eyes directly. Really. Killing is wrong. Without looking away from her, he 
felt his side. Damn it, I think you broke a rib.
Melissa chuckled. It didnt reach her eyes. It is a curious thing, Trent, but 
you have managed to do something nobody else ever has. You have made me feel 
very stupid. And I am not a stupid woman; I usually guess right. She gestured 
at the row of eight airlocks. I am where I am. My superiors did not expect you 
to make it to North Bay. How could he even find it, they said. They did not 
think you would make it here through all the Peaceforcers if you did find it. 
She shrugged. I did. I have great respect for you, Trent the thief. Her hands, 
holding the maser, were terribly steady. I shall be present at your execution.
You liked me.
You incredible egomaniac. She shook her head. You are charming, but that is 
not it. Do you realize what you have done to me? You sat down next to me and 
told me your name. Trent Smith,  she said icily.
Trent said quietly, I thought I was safe by that point. My name wasnt on the 
Boards even then, and I was seven hours from Free Luna. I didnt know you were a 
Peaceforcer.
Melissa du Bois shook her head, very slowly. You really do not know, do you?
Melissa, I dont have time for this.
I am going to be known for the rest of my life as the Elite whom Trent the 
thief spent four and a half hours sitting next to while a Level Three alert was 
on for him. My career is ruined. My name is a joke.
Im going to steal a spaceship now.
The barrel of the maser climbed until it was centered on Trents wishbone. No, 
you are not.
Trent said mildly, Youre not going to shoot me, Melissa.
Not if you surrender.
Not at all.
Trent, I should prefer to take you alive. But I will kill you if I must.
Trent cocked his head to one side, as though listening to something. I dont 
have time for this. And I think you broke one of my ribs.
I am horribly sorry.
Its okay. Turning away from her, Trent headed toward the airlocks.
Trent, called Melissa.
Trent turned to face her.
She said softly, I am sorry, my friend, and pulled the trigger.
There was a gentle, quiet click.
Trent smiled at her. Theres no charge cartridge.
Melissa stared at him, then at the maser, then at him again.
I pulled the charge cartridge, Trent explained. I didnt want to hurt 
anybody.
Soft, meaningless sounds issued from her throat.
I understand how you feel, said Trent, but theres this spaceship
With a stifled scream, Melissa launched herself across the deck at him. Trent 
ducked slowly, grabbing Melissa by the ankles as she sailed by overhead. 
Methodically, he pulled off her magnetic slippers, and then her shoes. He pushed 
her very lightly away from him, away from any possible grip.
Trent licked one finger and tested the air currents. He pointed at the far 
bulkhead. That way, he called out to Melissa, the airs circulating that 
way.
Trent turned away from her again as she struggled futilely in midair, and 
continued toward the row of airlocks. The red light was still flashing over the 
third airlock from the right.
At the airlock, a thought struck Trent. Melissa!
She looked in his direction.
The air currents should take you to the wall in, I dont know, ten minutes or 
so, but if youre really in a hurry, take off your clothes and throw them away 
from you; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
Trent stood, looking at her, for just a moment.
Then, with furious speed, Melissa du Bois began stripping her shirt off.
Trent watched her a moment longer, wishing he could stand around and react. He 
cycled through the airlock, his voice so quiet he himself could barely hear it. 
So much to do, so little time.




6-
 ^  
The ship docked at the third airlock from the right was not a slipship.
It was a two-seat yacht; the legend inscribed on the bulkhead, immediately 
inside the airlock, read:
United Nations Space Force Rolls-Royce 2066, #312
The interior of the yacht consisted of the pilots cabin, the airlock, and a 
small passageway that connected the two. Trent presumed that there were engines 
somewhere.
Going forward, Trent entered the pilots cabin, seated himself in the left-hand 
seat and strapped in.
In the right-hand seat, there was a handsome, elderly silver-haired man. He was 
skimming news reports on his handheld when Trent entered. On the breast of his 
pressure suit a name patch said col. webster, unsf.
Colonel Webster had barely glanced up when Trent entered. Returning to his 
handheld, he said in clipped military tones, Youre late, pilot.
Ive heard that one before, Trent snapped. He began studying the board before 
him. Except for what was obviously an ancient triddy tank, in the lower 
right-hand corner of the control panel, there was nothing Trent recognized on 
the entire board.
Colonel Websters head turned toward Trent as though it moved on bearings. 
Youre not my pilot.
Im not anybodys pilot.
What the hell does the PKF think its up to, Lieutenant?
Trent glanced down briefly at the name patch on his pressure suit. lt. 
charbrier, he read upside down.
It seemed to be Trents fate in life to impersonate officers of low rank.
Honestly, said Trent, I dont think anybody but Melissa has much of an idea. 
One pressure point, near the top of the board, was bordered in blue and was 
labeled auto.
Thank God for the British, Trent thought. He pressed the point marked auto.
The colonels face was growing red. Are you under the impression, Lieutenant, 
that being a member of the PKF gives you
Trent said, Im not a Peaceforcer. The triddy tank glowed slightly, with a 
milky gray sheen; it silvered, blossomed into rainbows, and sank in to depth.
In the tank, the words system active appeared.
Youre not  youre
Im a thief.
A th
A thief. Trent the thief. Hello, computer? There was no response from the 
system; Trent could not find anything on the control board in front of him that 
remotely resembled an I/O device. Opening his briefcase, he withdrew the circuit 
tracer and located the triddy tank lead-ins, following them down. The traces led 
into a panel on the floor; Trent got down on his knees and yanked the panel 
open, revealing a mass of logic and memory circuits entirely unlike anything he 
had ever seen before. He recognized various components, but at least half of the 
logic and most of the chipglue was entirely custom. There was one flat plastic 
plug sitting toward the bottom of the array of exposed circuitry; Trent pulled 
the plug free and exposed a standard optical handheld jack.
Trent plugged his handheld in and climbed back into the lefthand seat.
Colonel Webster watched the entire routine wordlessly. When Trent was finished, 
he burst out, How can you be doing this?
I dont know.
I cant let you do this.
You cant stop me.
But
Trent turned and looked the man square in the face. Colonel, youre wasting my 
time, and I dont have a lot. Youre old and you dont have a weapon. Trent 
paused as a thought struck him. Do you?
Well, no, but
You dont have a weapon, Trent said conclusively. Im stronger than you are, 
smarter than you are, younger than you are, and a hell of a lot more desperate 
than you are; I know kung fu, karate, aikido, shotokan, judo, and lots of other 
Oriental words, so would you please shut up?
Trent had not raised his voice. The Colonel blinked and shut up.
For approximately the tenth time that day Trent regretted Bookers lack of 
ability to dig up a traceset for him. Aloud, Trent said, Johnny?
There was a brief pause before the words appeared in the triddy field. hi, boss.
Can you hear me?
YEP. CANT FIND AN AUDIO OUTPUT FOR THIS MESS. USE THE HANDHELD SPEAKER? ILL 
HAVE TO JACK THE VOLUME ALL THE WAY UP.
This is fine, Johnny.
SLOW DAMN HARDWARE AGAIN, BOSS.
Sorry, Johnny. Get us out of here and Ill pour you into the finest inskin 
Credit can buy. There was another pause, sowe made it to the north BAY. 
CHECKING  NOT BAD, BOSS. THIS SUCKER HAS RANGE TO TAKE US BACK TO EARTH, IF WE 
WANT.
Hows the autopilot?
LIKEWISE NOT BAD  THE HARDWARES RELATIVELY NEW; THE PROGRAM ITSELFS ALMOST 
FIFTEEN YEARS OLD, BUT ITLL GET US THERE. IT TELLS ME ITS A MCDONNELL 1300 
AUTOPILOT, WITH AUXILIARY FUNCTIONS AS FOLLOWS: ENTERTAINMENT CAPABILITIES
Cancel, Johnny. Inventory comm systems, weapons, drive type and acceleration 
capabilities. Disengage the airlock.
DONE. There was a hollow clang as the airlock disconnected. THIS VEHICLE, 
ROLLS-ROYCE YACHT 2066, INVENTORY #312, TELLS ME ITS UNARMED. COMMUNICATIONS 
ON ALL APPROVED RADIO BANDS; FURTHER EQUIPPED FOR LASER COMMUNICATIONS. GREEN 
COMMUNICATIONS LASER, OF 4.4 MEGAJOULES CAPACITY 
Trent said, Mahatma Gandhi! He turned and stared at Colonel Webster. You have 
a communications laser on this ship for what, talking to Alpha Centauri?
This is a military
Shut up.
DRIVE SYSTEM IS PROTON-BORON FISSION, NONRADIATIVE. IT PRODUCES A BURST TOP 
ACCELERATION OF 8,800 CEPSSA, A SUSTAINABLE TOP ACCELERATION OF 6,200 CEPSSA. 
MAGNETICALLY BOTTLED POSITRONS, USED TO INITIATE PROTON-BORON REACTION, MAY BE 
SPRAYED INDEPENDENTLY OF THE MAIN ENGINE.
Trent looked up from the readout in the triddy tank. He looked blankly out the 
viewport for a moment, then turned to study Colonel Webster. With something very 
like horror, he said, Where do they get people like you?
The old man stared at him, still with no idea at all what was going on. Where
Shut up. Through the fore viewfield Trent could see Luna, hanging midphase 
against a background of stars. When he looked back down into the triddy tank, a 
sentence hung there, silver text against the ambient blue background.
BOSS, THE INVENTORY SHOWS A TRACESET ON BOARD.
Trent snapped, Where?
CHECKING 
In the triddy tank, a holo of the yacht appeared. The apparent viewpoint entered 
the airlock, and moved forward into the pilots cabin. It focused on a spot just 
behind where Colonel Webster sat, and illuminated a section of the bulkhead. 
Trent leaned over Colonel Webster without explanation, located the latch to the 
storage compartment next to Websters elbow, and popped it open.
There were half a dozen items inside the storage compartment, ranging from a 
first-aid kit to a repair kit for breached pressure suits. Trent tossed items 
left and rightemergency food rations, a water bottle, the first-aid kit and a 
box marked patches, the traceset
He lunged back and snatched the traceset out of midair.
It was larger than any traceset Trent had seen in five years; the trades alone, 
at the ends of a single long curved piece of plastisteel which was supposed to 
snap on around the back of the skull, were three and a half centimeters in 
diameter. The control surface mounted on the supporting plastisteel bar, was 
simply a radio frequency selector marked Band One through Band Eight.
Johnny, which band?
TRY BAND FOUR, BOSS; THATS THE BAND THE HARDWARE HERE EXPECTS TO USE FOR 
DIAGNOSTICS. ITS THE WIDEST BANDWIDTH CIRCUIT AVAILABLE.
It was set to Band Three; Trent touched the pressure point next to the readout 
once, licked the trades and put the traceset on.
Trent closed his eyes to go Inside and heard Colonel Webster tensing in the seat 
next to him.
Trent said, Dont do that.
Webster did it anyway, swung the handheld at Trents skull.
Trent did not even open his eyes; with his swollen right hand he slapped 
Websters arm away, clenched the hand into a fist, and punched in the general 
direction of Websters face. He connected solidly; he was certain that the 
impact hurt him more than it did the Space Force colonel.
Trent said, Please dont do that.
He went Inside.
Johnny
Johnny came alive.
The part of him which was Image had time to marvel, briefly, as they coalesced 
together, at how a fast and simple optical transputer could combine with a slow 
and complex salt-water-based protein soup to produce something able to do things 
of which neither, alone, was even remotely capable.
The part of him which was Trent was far too slow to be aware of the process of 
joining as anything but instantaneous.
The brief moment passed and Johnny Johnny went down into the Rolls-Royces 
control circuitry.
Looking out through the ship navigation cameras, Johnny
Johnny located the other vehicles moored at the North Bay. The ship that he was 
in was the only one of its type; the rest of the vehicles were slipships, 
single-occupant military vehicles designed to be flown by PKF Elite, with twice 
the yachts acceleration and maneuverability, three times its firepower. The 
Rolls autopilot informed Johnny Johnny that they were powered by microfusion 
engines running off monatomic hydrogen; at Johnny Johnnys request the autopilot 
dug up schematics for the ships.
There was a cluster of five slipships very near one another; Johnny Johnny 
turned the yacht over on attitude rockets and pulled away from the launching 
bay, out into clear space. He centered the 4.4-megajoule communications laser 
about two-thirds of the way down on one of the slipships, where the schematics 
showed the monatomic-hydrogen tank, and pulsed the laser just once.
The entire North Bay exploded.
Monatomic hydrogen under immense pressure swept out from the damaged slipship in 
a great wash of flame, mixing with the liquid oxygen from the lifesystems. Like 
a living thing the flame ripped into the nearby slipships, tearing through 
hullmetal as though it were plastipaper.
It was too fast for the human eye to catch; Johnny Johnny sat and watched in 
calm amazement through the ship cameras as the disaster unfolded. The portion of 
Johnny Johnny that was Trent had the fleeting thought that he was going to be 
sick, thinking about Melissa du Bois, trapped just the other side of the 
airlocks. The chain reaction, as one slipship after another added its supply of 
oxygen and single-H to the conflagration, was awesome. The flame touched a chain 
of refueling tanks near the edge of the Bay; the resulting majestic explosion 
reached out arms of flame to touch the yacht, sent the Rolls-Royce tumbling out 
into space.
Nearly a minute passed while Johnny Johnny fought to regain control of the 
yacht. When he had finally corrected the tumbling and the modest velocity the 
explosion had imparted the yacht, it hung in space some three hundred meters 
away from the North Bay.
Beside him, Trent heard Colonel Webster murmuring a prayer: shall become in 
him a fountain of water, springing up unto life everlasting. Receive their 
souls, Lord. Amen.
Amazingly, when the flame cleared, the flight bay was still pressurized.
Trent felt a brief surge of elation; once again he had probably succeeded in not 
killing somebody; Melissa was very likely still alive inside. He turned to 
Colonel Webster. Do you see that?
Thats a miracle, said Colonel Webster.
Trent detached himself slightly from Johnny Johnny, shook his head. No, its 
engineering.
Colonel Webster did not even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the destruction 
Trent had caused.
They probably designed the flight bay to withstand this sort of thing. The 
PKF, Trent explained to the Colonel, is terribly damn insecure.
Space Force Colonel Webster said, Really?
Really. Im not sure why.
Trent envisioned utter chaos inside of Spacebase One, as thousands of 
Peaceforcers were roused from sleep by either the shock of the explosion or by 
other Peaceforcers.
Trent envisioned turning the yacht around and fleeing toward Luna.
Trent envisioned being shot down by the Peaceforcers before he was halfway 
there.
What to do, Trent muttered, what to do.
I would suggest surrendering yourself, said Colonel Webster stiffly.
Im not talking to you, said Trent. He went back Inside.
Aiming at the missile launch window, which also contained, withdrawn into 
protective bunkers at the moment, particle beam weapons and laser cannon, 
preparing to fire into the launch window at random until something either 
exploded or shot back, Johnny Johnny paused.
What would it take, Johnny Johnny wondered, to detonate a nuclear warhead? Would 
a 4.4-megajoule laser do it?
Were there even nuclear-tipped missiles inside?
As far as Johnny Johnny was concerned, L-5 was wasted on Spacebase One, and just 
as well cleared for use for something else; but there were people inside.
Under his breath, Trent said aloud, What to do, what to do.
Trent didnt want to kill anyone, not even Peaceforcers who deserved it.
Damn, damn, damn, he said, what to do, what to do.
Nothing was occurring to him.
Something occurred to him.
Aloud, Trent marveled, Boy, thats a stupid idea.
What? asked Colonel Webster.
Of course, said Trent, turning to look earnestly into Colonel Websters eyes, 
they can only kill me once.
The old man nodded uncertainly. Yes.
Im sorry, said Trent, but I dont have my squirt gun anymore. Can I have 
your handheld?
Webster gave Trent his handheld. You cant, he said softly, really think 
youre going to get away with kidnapping an officer of the United Nations Space 
Force.
Oh, Im going to give you back, Trent assured the man. I am sorry, he 
repeated, that I dont have my squirt gun anymore.
Colonel Webster looked away from Trent for a moment, and then looked back. Why 
are you sorry? he asked quietly.
Trent grinned at the man. It was filled, Trent explained, with Complex 8-A. 
You know, fadeaway.
Colonel Webster simply looked at him without comprehension.
Dont you get it?
Colonel Webster shook his head. No.
I could shoot you with it and say, Old soldiers never die, they simply 
fadeaway. 
Colonel Webster didnt laugh.
Trents smile vanished. Your problem, he said, is you have no sense of 
humor. Holding Colonel Websters handheld in his unhurt left hand, he struck 
the man in the side of the head. The movement sent a spasm of pain through his 
ribs.
Colonel Webster simply blinked, so Trent struck him again, harder, and Webster 
lolled freely in his seat.
With skill a professional pilot might have admired, Johnny Johnny brought the 
yacht within meters of the launch window before the Rolls momentum with regard 
to the central cylinder of Spacebase One was canceled. Shedding the traceset, 
Trent unstrapped himself from his seat. Ignoring the pain which movement caused 
him, he opened up his briefcase and withdrew the reel of monofilament. He donned 
the pressure suits right glove, closing the airseal with his left hand. He had 
to take off the traceset before he could get the helmet on. Reaching over his 
shoulder, again with his left hand, he pulled on the helmet and sealed the 
necks locking ring. Trent wiggled his left hand into the glove hooked to his 
hip. Without expression, he used his broken right hand to close the airseal on 
the glove.
Standing in the airlock, Trent leaped approximately five meters over to the 
missile launch window. Unreeling the fine-line, he located the laser cannon and 
particle projectors and began weaving a web of fineline over their tracking 
mirrors, not very tightly, but firmly enough so that if anyone tried to move 
either the weapons or their aiming mirrors, the restraining monofilament would 
slice them into small pieces.
Trying not to think of what would happen to him if anybody fired a missile while 
he was actually standing in the launch window, Trent proceeded to do the same 
thing with each of the four clusters of missiles.
He had far more fineline than he needed to do the job.
When he was finished, Trent went to the edge of the launch window, and looked at 
the stars.
Its the tourist in me, Booker; Ive always wanted to see Luna.
Earth hung over Trents head; Luna was off to Trents right. There was a tiny 
bright spot, off past Luna, that was Almundsen Military Base at L-4, and 
another, somewhat fuzzier bright spot, just to one side of Earth, that was 
Halfway, the massive industrial zero-gee factory park that circled Earth in 
Clarke orbit.
The stars were even brighter than they had been in the holo on the wall of the 
Flandry.
It was all quite lovely.
The remark to Booker had been, at best, only half a joke.
Trent sighed, and returned to the yacht.
The proton-boron engine fired at slightly better than two thousand centimeters 
per second squared acceleration, on a planned trajectory to the far side of 
Luna.
Trent was struggling to breathe. Every breath was a lance of fire crawling down 
his right side.
In the seat next to him Trent had bound Colonel Websters arms at his sides, 
using a snakechain from the airlock. Colonel Websters helmet was clamped shut; 
Trent had done that, too.
The man wouldnt shut up, and Trent didnt want to hit him again.
At first Trent was not sure what had changed.
Then the beeping sound penetrated his consciousness. Through the traceset, Trent 
said, johnny.
INCOMING CALL, BOSS. JUDGING FROM THE INTENSITY OF THE SIGNAL, ITS A WIDE-BEAM 
MASER FROM SPACEBASE ONE; THEY DONT ACTUALLY HAVE A TIGHT BEAM ON US.
IF I ANSWER IT, CAN YOU ALTER MY VOICE PRINT WITHOUT THEM BEING AWARE OF IT?
ON THIS HARDWARE  THERELL BE A DELAY OF ABOUT A HUNDRED THIRTY MILLION 
NANOSECONDS, BOSS.
EIGHTH OF A SECOND? GOOD ENOUGH.
Hi, said Trent. Hi there. Moving slowly under the two thousand cepssa, 
carefully, muscles aching, Trent unstrapped from his seat and pulled Websters 
helmet off. He checked the mans respiration and heartbeat; although the man was 
still unconscious, both eyes dilated equally when exposed to light.
A deep, hard voice, like a speaking stone, said, Trent.
Thats a good guess, said Trent. Who am I speaking to?
Commissionaire Mohammed Vance, PKF Elite.
Oh? Trent remembered being told by Roger Colbert that the quarantine of the 
Flandry would last only three hours; it meant that Vance must still be in the 
pursuit ship, and had not actually arrived at L-5 yet.
Belatedly, as an afterthought, and on general principles, Trent instructed 
Johnny Johnny to beam the following conversation to Almundsen Military Base at 
L-4. I know you, Trent said to Vance. I stole your dossier the other day.
I know, the voice rumbled. I paid the Syndic for holographs of you yesterday 
evening. Apparently Ive also paid for your passage aboard the Flandry, your cab 
fare, and a phone call to a number I havent been able to trace.
Its not there.
Excuse me?
The number doesnt go to the number it goes to.
A chuckle. As you say.
It was twenty-four minutes before the yacht would enter Lunar orbit, twenty-six 
before it would be beyond line of sight to L-5. Hey, Vance, said Trent, where 
did I screw up?
A bit too much flashiness, Trent. Its a common mistake among the young. You 
shouldnt have stolen the Unification Councilors car.
I was late, Trent muttered.
He called it in; I had tags out for anything involving that sort of, shall we 
say, casual theft. DataWatch did a bit of scouting around, and youll 
understand, it was the work of a moment for me to realize that the Mohammed 
Vance who boarded the Flandry was not myself.
Thanks, Vance. I was curious. What now?
I presume you are not interested in surrendering yourself for trial and 
subsequent execution?
Gosh but youre a smart Peaceforcer.
I thought not. Well, then, we can spend the next  seventeen minutes and 
fifteen seconds or so discussing psychology, negotiating, what-have-you. 
Seventeen minutes, now, is the time I have left before I must send the missiles 
to destroy you. Id have preferred to simply destroy your crafts drive with 
laser cannon, but Im informed that the aiming mirrors are no longer 
responding.
Trent said, Psychology?
The relationship between the hunted and the hunter. It fascinates me.
I bet.
Let me give you an example. Having studied all of the data Ive been able to 
accumulate about you, Ive made a small wager with myself. As I see it, Trent, 
you have two alternatives, and I believe I know which one you will choose.
Two alternatives was at least one alternative more than Trent could think of. 
Two alternatives?
The first, said Vance, is to take Colonel Webster down to the airlock, seal 
his suit, activate his beacon, and push him away from the shuttle, so that hell 
have a chance of surviving when we destroy the ship.
Trent glanced at Webster, tied in the seat next to him; the man was twitching 
slightly in his seat, as though he were straining, through his pressure suit, 
against the bonds which held him in place. And the other alternative?
Keep him with you, and drag him to your death with you.
Oh. This is a subtle way of letting me know hes of no use to me as a hostage, 
is it?
Would you prefer I be plainer?
No. No, really. Which way are you betting?
I think, said Vance, that youll let him live. Your behavior throughout this 
event has been most interesting.
Thank you, said Trent after a moment. How do you turn on the beacon?
Its a small, bright red button, the deep voice said quietly, on both the 
inner and outer surfaces of the helmets collar. Trent located the button 
immediately. Press it once and then dont press it again.
Okay. Thanks again.
You are quite welcome, Trent.
By the way, Commissioner. There are two things you do not know.
What might those be, Trent?
Well, the first one is that Ive been beaming this conversation to Almundsen 
Space Force Base at L-4.
There was silence at the other end of the maser beam. Five minutes gone by; by 
Vances reckoning, there would be about twelve minutes left in which he could 
still destroy Trent.
Vance said slowly, Youre bluffing.
Trent said, Wanna bet?
There was no response from Vances end.
Call them, ask, Trent said. Better yet, wait; theyll call you.
Trent broke the connection and took off the traceset. Johnny, he said aloud, 
cut the acceleration, please. He unstrapped himself again as the rockets died, 
unstrapped the colonel, and in free-fall dragged Colonel Webster back to the 
airlock.
Standing in the airlock, Trent checked Webster as thoroughly as he could from 
the outside; seven hours of air, the vampire gauge on the mans earlobe showing 
sufficient oxygenation of the bloodstream. Webster was shouting something at 
Trent; Trent could barely hear his voice through the mans helmet.
Trent sealed his own helmet again, closed the inner airlock door and touched the 
pressure point to begin evacuation. He chinned the radio bar on the right-hand 
side of his helmet. Colonel Webster?
A blast of noise hit him the second he released the chin pad; Webster, 
screaming, shouting obscenities at Trent.
Trent shouted, Shut up!
The airlock status light went bright red; Colonel Webster, rather to Trents 
surprise, shut up. Look, said Trent, Im going to push you out into space and 
the Peaceforcers are going to come get you after they blow me up. Okay? Im 
throwing you away so youll be safe.
The mans eyes were wide inside the helmet. His voice quivered. Youre throwing 
me away?
So youll be safe, Trent assured him. Try to look on it as an Experience, 
like something Winnie the Pooh might get involved in; Floating in Space while 
Awaiting Rescue. Like that.
Winnie the what?
For a solid two seconds Trent had no idea at all what to say. You dont know 
who Winnie the Pooh is?
Colonel Webster whispered, No.
Trent said, Oh, my. Before opening the outer airlock door, Trent secured 
himself to the airlock bulkhead with the snakechain that he had bound Websters 
arms with. There were a row of six such snakechains in the airlock. Why six, in 
a ship whose maximum occupancy was two, Trent had no idea. He suspected that it 
had something to do with multiple redundancy; an understandable fetish in an 
organization as multiply redundant as Space Force.
Trent opened the outer airlock door then, and kicked the pressure-suited body of 
Colonel Webster as hard as he could. Trent chinned the radio bar. Good-bye, 
Colonel Webster, said Trent aloud. I hope you make it.
As an afterthought he added, You poor, desperate fool. He clicked off the 
radio. Winnie the what indeed, he muttered, cycling back through the airlock. 
He returned to the pilots seat and strapped himself in again. He spent several 
moments enjoying the feeling of being able to breathe, and then said aloud, 
Bring acceleration back up, Johnny.
Nothing happened.
Realizing the helmet muffled his voice, Trent chinned the radio bar. Johnny? 
Can you hear me?
The voice was tinny. Hi, Boss.
Kick it back in, Johnny. Lets go. The pain flared along the entire right side 
of his body as he was slammed back into his seat.
There were approximately six minutes left before, by Vances stated 
calculations, he would be unable to blow up Trent.
Hello? said Trent.
Nobody was answering him.
Hello hello. Hi there. Is anyone out there?
Your pardon, Trent, came Vances rumble a few seconds later. Ive been having 
a slight difficulty with Space Force. Im curious as to why you beamed our 
conversation to Almundsen, especially as the telescope Im watching you with 
shows youve just jettisoned your hostage.
What makes you think I jettisoned the hostage? Trent asked. Maybe I just 
tossed a pressure suit out the airlock.
Let me talk to Colonel Webster, said Vance immediately.
Uh
I didnt think so, said Vance simply. Why did you beam our conversation to 
L-4, Trent? Was it simply to get me talking to them to gain you time?
Trent had done it simply to gain time; clearly it had not worked. Confuse the 
enemy, said Trent, divide and conquer.
I think you did it to gain time, said Vance. What was the other thing you 
thought I did not know?
Elite Commissioner Mohammed Vance, said Trent softly, you are entirely too 
intelligent for my peace of mind.
And you dont sound nearly desperate enough for mine. What have you done, 
Trent?
Trent said, Ill tell you in a minute.
I am tempted to fire on you immediately.
It would be a mistake.
Unless you can give me a reason why I should not, I am going to fire upon you 
immediately.
Okay, okay. Listen closely. In detail, Trent described what he had done to 
Spacebase Ones missiles and energy weapons. So of course the mirrors are shot. 
Same for the missiles; fire one if you dont believe me. The instant it starts 
to move you dont have a missile any more, just pieces of missile tangled up in 
fineline. Some of the pieces will have fuel in them. Trent paused. Boom. A big 
one, I think.
When he was finished, Vance was silent for a long stretch. He broke it with the 
words, I must assume you are bluffing. I do not have time to get an officer in 
there to check it out.
That was the idea. But you do have time to pull your Peaceforcers out of the 
north end of Spacebase One before firing.
This is very likely, said Vance deliberately, simply another ploy on your 
part to gain time.
The very slight enjoyment that Trent had been feeling vanished. Vance, Im 
telling the truth.
Mohammed Vance did not reply in words.
On the rear cameras, displayed in the holograph floating before Trents eyes, 
Trent saw the entire north end of Spacebase Ones central cylinder unfold in 
silent, brilliant light.
Trent could not imagine such a catastrophe not killing somebody, somewhere.
I see, said Vance after the briefest of pauses, that you were telling the 
truth.
Oh my god. Trent could not find words. Evil. You are an evil son of a bitch, 
Vance.
Im a good Peaceforcer.
thats what I said. Trent stared at the image, at the slowly expanding 
wavefront of the explosion. How could you do that?
I gave an order.
Johnny Johnny said quietly in Trents ear, Boss?
Yeah, Johnny?
Better put the traceset back on, Boss. I need you.
Trent ripped his helmet off and pulled the traceset on. He melted into Johnny 
Johnny.
A missile was chasing him.
Johnny Johnny thought, how can I play the game when THEY KEEP CHANGING THE RULES 
ON ME?
The missile showed clearly on radar. Zooming the cameras to their highest 
resolution, Johnny Johnny could barely discern the faint spark of the 
approaching missiles exhaust, violet against black.
Thinking calmly, this isnt happening, Johnny Johnny turned the communications 
laser on the approaching missile. It had no immediate effect; in a tight beam 
the laser was not highly accurate at such distances against something moving at 
very high speeds. The missile itself took evasive action, varying boost 
irregularly as it chased the yacht.
Locating Colonel Webster with the radar to insure that he was far enough away, 
Johnny Johnny sprayed the space back along his trajectory with free positrons. 
It was his second and last line of defense. If the laser didnt get the missile 
first, the cloud of positrons undoubtedly would.
The explosion that would result when that happened would, Johnny Johnny was 
almost certain, kill both of him.
Johnny Johnny examined the situation for a few moments longer. There was nothing 
else he could think of to do. He programmed the autopilot for the yachts full 
acceleration of 8,800 cepssa, beginning in twenty seconds and running until 
twenty seconds after the estimated time of the missiles impact.
Johnny Johnny hesitated a moment, then split himself back into his components; 
Trent stripped the traceset off quickly, and refastened his helmet against the 
death pressure vacuum he was anticipating shortly.
He had just finished when a small mountain fell on him.
The first second of just under nine gravities acceleration wasnt so bad.
The next was horrible.
The third was exquisitely unpleasant.
The fourth second was the worst agony that Trent could remember having ever 
experienced. The entire right side of his rib cage felt as though it were caving 
in.
And then it got worse.

The laser never touched the hurtling missile.
At approximately sixteen seconds before estimated impact with Trents stolen 
yacht, the missile struck the cloud of positrons, glowing slightly from 
interaction with the solar wind.
Trent, the world narrowed down to his fight for breath, was aware of none of 
this.
Suddenly there was light, heat
and grinning, with feral red eyes and wet sharp teeth, there was pain.

May 9, 2062.
Carl Castanaveras left the lighted tunnel and went out into the dusk. Night was 
falling as he entered the grounds of the park, and the huge transplanted trees 
about which the garden was designed were heavy with shadow, shifting and 
impenetrable. He reached with the Sight and was stunned by how strongly the 
grief struck him when he lowered his guards. The boy was sitting high in the 
branches of the tallest tree in the park, watching the sunset. The sky was clear 
that night, and it was colder than a summer of Carls childhood could ever have 
been.
Carl spoke without sound. Trent, come down.
There was a visible flicker of movement at the top of the tree, and a rustling 
sound as leaves were displaced. Trent vanished into the denser growth around the 
center of the tree, and while Carl was still looking up, the boy who was not, 
after all, a telepath, appeared in the lower branches, paused, hung by his 
hands, and dropped two meters to the ground. He landed crouching, and 
straightened slowly. Hi.
Carl blinked. Hi. Trent was barefoot, wearing old jeans and a green shirt that 
could not possibly be keeping him warm. Carl felt almost alien in comparison; he 
was still dressed formally, in the black suit, and the blue-inlaid black cloak 
for warmth. He gestured back toward the lighted Complex. I was just in with 
Suzanne. She said
Trent nodded. Yes.
Im sorry, Trent. I  dont know what else to say.
Me too. Trent paused. Me neither. This has been such a bad day, he said 
conversationally. I cant believe it.
Now, standing there faced with the boy, Carl had difficulty finding words. How 
can I help?
Ive been thinking about that. Trent shivered, perhaps from the cold. I have 
to leave.
I  dont understand.
I have to leave here. Doctor Montignet will take me, I think.
Leave? said Carl stupidly. The Complex?
Trent said simply, Yes.
Why?
Im not a telepath. I dont want to live with telepaths. In the darkness Carl 
was not certain of his expression. I cant.
Trent, why?
Trent said slowly, Father  I think the day will come when youwhen 
telepathswill be normal, and the rest of us will be out in the cold because we 
cant compete. For most people its going to be a while before that happens He 
averted his face and did not look at Carl. With a sort of amazement Carl saw a 
smile touch his lips. The almost insane grief never ceased for an instant, and 
the boy made his lips move in a smile. You dont breed that fast. The smile 
faded to dead seriousness. But if I stay here that happens to me now. He 
turned and looked straight at Carl, eyes pooled in shadow. Ive been webdancing 
in Capitol Citys InfoNet. They dont touch me, you know. When I get an inskin, 
I dont think theres anybody on Earth who can touch me. Trent gestured toward 
the Complex, just visible above the fence around the park, looming white under 
its floodlights. If I stay here Im nothing. I love you all but I do not choose 
to be nothing.
Carl shook his head slowly. Trent, thats crazy. Malko lives here with us.
Malko has experience and knowledge and connections which make him valuable. 
The boy shrugged. Im a Plaa webdancer. Father, there are lots of webdancers.
It stunned Carl, how helpless an eleven-year-old boy could make him feel. He 
touched the boy with his mind and went reeling back again from the numbing hurt. 
He reached with one hand toward the boy and was startled to see Trent draw back.
Trent said flatly, Dont touch me. Carl stared at him. He said helplessly, 
Trent? I dont belong here. Carl was shaking his head no, not in negation 
but in pained disbelief, and Trent said softly, Let me go
And Carl Castanaveras, for a brief, time-wrenching moment, saw the future 
twisting itself about his son, and heard his voice say with the hollow echo of 
prophecy, I think you are right. You do not belong here. I think you will never 
belong anywhere.
Trent was not even a telepath, but there was no one at the Complex who slept 
that night without Trents broadcast pain twisting their dreams into nightmares.
That was how it came to be, when a staged riot broke out at the Complex on June 
the second, 2063, that Trent was not there. That was how it came to be that, 
when the riot grew into war between the telepaths and the Peaceforcers who were 
sent in to restore order, Trent was not there. That was how it came to be, 
that when a young Peaceforcer named Mohammed Vance ordered the use of tactical 
thermonuclear weapons on the telepathsthe telepaths who had held off the massed 
might of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force with nothing but their Giftthat 
was how it came to be that Trent was not with them.
Seven years later, the only nightmares that Trent had ever had concerned the day 
he found out that his people had been destroyed and that he, of his own choice, 
had not been with them.
The image from his nightmares was curiously sharp: a missile that should not 
have been there, dropping from the sky, expanding in light and heat 

At no time had Trent been totally unconscious.
Behind the polarized glassite of the pressure suits helmet, Trents face was 
white with pain. Everything that he looked at looked back at him in double 
image.
The Rolls was crossing over the far side of Luna on a high trajectory, moving 
far too fast due to the extreme acceleration Trent had been forced to employ to 
escape the missile that should not have been there.
Trents voice was a trembling croak. Johnny?
The tinny voice came immediately. Hi, Boss.
Were alive again.
No, still. But weve got problems.
I can see, Johnny.
Weve lost structural integrity, Boss.
I can see, Johnny.
The ships hull had been half torn away in the blast.
Bizarrely, the major section of the detached hull floated not forty meters from 
the yacht, traveling along almost exactly the same trajectory, tumbling slowly. 
What had been the outer portion of the hull was partially melted.
Trent said, How bad is it, Johnny? He listened for nearly thirty seconds, and 
then said, Cancel the damage report. What works?
Engines are in pretty good shape, Boss. Life-system, communications maser, and 
the autopilot are all still functioning, though Ive lost access to some of the 
data the autopilots carrying, and some of the rest got scrambled by the EMP 
from the blast. Johnny Johnny paused. The lack of a hull, he noted, tends to 
obviate the need for a functioning life-system, actually.
Johnny, dont make jokes when things are this bad.
You do it all the time, Boss.
Im allowed. Is there any chance at all you can land this bitch?
There was a pause. The autopilot says, given our relative velocity to the Lunar 
surface, and the absence of our number three landing strut, a soft touchdown 
attempt is inadvisable.
We dont have a landing strut?
Number one landing strut has been weakened significantly. Number two is 
tentatively rated in good condition; number three is gone. Boss?
Yeah, Johnny?
Are we going to die, Boss?
Probably, Johnny.
Oh. Trents Image was silent for a long moment. Boss, Ive enjoyed working 
for you.
Lying in the dark pain-filled haze, Trent could not for the life of him remember 
having written any code that could possibly have come up with a response like 
that. My Image, he thought, is not going to make me cry. He said very quietly, 
Thanks, Johnny Johnny. Take us down.
Ill do my best, Boss.
I know.
The Rolls lost height rapidly, its engine firing almost parallel to the Lunar 
surface. They swept over Lunar farside in minutes, losing both altitude and 
speed, the proton-boron reactor burning to produce just better than 4,000 
cepssa. The ship reached nearside well north of the equator, over twenty degrees 
latitude. It flashed past Schiaparelli and Aristarchus in the Sea of Storms, 
moving slightly northeast, and passed some eighteen degrees north of Luna City 
at Copernicus. The ship had less than a kilometer of altitude when it crossed 
the thirtieth degree latitude. It cut over the north corner of Archimedes 
Crater, dropping ever lower, past the southern end of Aristillus.
Johnny Johnny said, Boss, how large do mountain chains get on Earth? Pretty 
big?
Trent could not even reply. He fought for air. In the holofield hovering above 
his face he saw the mountain range come up to greet them.
My map says this is the Caucasus mountain range, Boss. Checking on radar  and 
were not going to make it over the peaks, said Johnny Johnny precisely. Sorry 
about this, Boss. Ill try not to kill you.
The drive exploded up to 8,800 cepssa.
Trent tried to scream, but there was no air at all in his lungs.
The mountain chain continued to grow in the yachts front cameras, but more 
slowly now.
As Trent was blacking out, Johnny Johnny crashed the yacht. The ship bounced 
once off the side of a peak, still slowing, and then Johnny Johnny smashed the 
yacht down onto a wide, flat ledge, high up on the mountain. He cut the drives 
as they touched, and the craft rolled once, twice, and finally stopped, lying 
upside down at the edge of the rock abutment.
Hanging upside down strapped in his seat was, Trent found, an absolutely 
wonderful position under one-sixth gravity.
It was practically as good as free-fall.
Unconsciousness claimed him.

Some time laterTrent estimated it at between fifteen seconds and eternityhis 
eyes fluttered open again.
It was probably a blessing that the entire right side of his rib cage was 
without feeling.
A voice was yammering in his ear. Trent could not make heads or tails of 
whatever the voice was saying.
With intense concentration, Trent managed to undo the straps that held him in 
place in the upside-down pilots seat.
In gentle slow motion Trent fell perhaps a meter to the yachts ceiling. He 
stood slowly, reached up and very carefully withdrew his handheld from where it 
was jacked in on the floor above his head. The voice in his ears ceased 
abruptly. With grave concentration, he reached up again and pulled his briefcase 
out from its storage place above the upside-down pilots chair.
It took him most of a minute to get the briefcase open, and put the handheld 
inside it.
He congratulated himself on successfully closing his briefcase.
Trents voice echoed oddly in his ears. Im still alive again.
He stepped into the passageway that led to the airlock.
With the shifting of the distribution of mass, the yacht began sliding, off the 
rock ledge, down toward the surface. An out-jutting spar, a hundred meters down 
from the ledge, broke the yacht into two major halves, and the two pieces 
continued their tumble, a quarter of a kilometer down the mountainside.

Trent could not remember how he had come to be in this place.
He walked in a pressure suit along the foothills of a vast mountain chain, 
stumbling frequently. His briefcase was clutched in his left hand; the pressure 
suits glove barely fit through the briefcases handle. He was eight meters tall 
and there was a hell of a wind coming from somewhere; it kept knocking him down.
He fell, again and again. Each time he got back up and walked on, without any 
destination in mind whatsoever.
The world around him was very strange, all gray and white; the shadows were very 
sharply defined, and utterly black.
The sky was without color, and both the stars and sun were in it at the same 
time.
It was very hot inside the pressure suit.
His knee hurt.
Something about his surroundings nagged at Trent, but he was unable to decide 
what it was.
Finally he fell, and did not rise again.




The Wall
2069-2070 Gregorian
 ^  
No miracle has ever taken place under conditions which science can accept. 
Experience shows, without exception, that miracles occur only in times and in 
countries in which miracles are believed in, and in the presence of persons who 
are disposed to believe in them.
Ernest Renan




Vie de Jesus, 1863 Gregorian
1-
 ^  
Trent was thirsty.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Aside from being thirsty, Trent felt fine.
Some time later Trent realized that aside from being thirsty he didnt feel 
anything at all.
His eyes were still closed, and Trent knew there was some very good reason why 
he should not open them.
Trent opened his left eye.
He closed it, and opened his right eye.
He let that eye droop shut, and then, cautiously, opened both eyes at once.
Each time he saw the same thing.
He was lying on something soft, on the floor of the strangest room he had ever 
seen in his life. The ceiling was lit with soft yellow sunpaint, which was 
normal enough; there were four walls, and a doorway without a door in it.
The dcor was  odd.
The walls were cut from some porous stone, and two of the three walls that Trent 
could see had been smoothed and polished. The third wall was in the process of 
being smoothed; it was simply rough-cut stone over nearly a third of its 
surface.
There was furniture in the room: one webchair, a small table of unpainted steel. 
They appeared strictly utilitarian, except for their odd delicacy; they could 
not, Trent thought, support any weight to speak of. Perhaps, he speculated 
shrewdly, the furniture was not designed for use by adults, but rather by, say, 
very tall, skinny childrenor, thought Trent, pleased with his own cleverness, 
by elves.
Yes, elves.
As in many fairy tales, there was a monster in this one. It walked in as Trent 
was speculating about the furniture, carrying Trents briefcase in one hand. It 
was large and bulky, ugly to a truly remarkable degree. It had a single huge, 
dark eye, and a large horny antenna growing out of its forehead.
Through a dry throat, Trent said, You are the second ugliest thing I have ever 
seen in my life. He focused blurry eyes on the monster. You are not as hairy 
as Booker Jamethon.
The monster proceeded to pull its head off, and hang the detached head on a hook 
growing out of the wall. It seemed that the monster had swallowed a hugely 
muscled, dark-skinned male human, fifty or sixty years of age, with wiry, 
steel-gray hair. The man was not at all, thought Trent, what one would expect to 
find inside a monster.
Trent suddenly remembered where he was. Ah, he said reasonably, I knew there 
was a good reason not to open my eyes.
The man in the pressure suit looked at Trent. Indeed? He was unzipping the 
pressure suit, wriggling out of it. Ive often thought that myself, opening my 
eyes in the morning. What a lovely day it is, Ill think, and then I get out of 
bed and its ruined. With his pressure suit off he no longer looked like the 
second ugliest thing Trent had ever seen. He did not spit on the floor even once 
while Trent was watching. But by the time I know just how bad the mistake was 
its usually too damn late to go back to bed. Pulling the chair over to where 
Trent was lying propped up against the wall, the man seated himself. How do you 
feel?
Numb. Trent studied the man. Distinctly Amerindian features, a compact frame; 
strong hands. You dont look like a Peaceforcer.
The man blinked. I should hope not.
Trent nodded. Okay. Alive, apparently not in custody  What day is it? What 
time is it?
Thursday. About ten-thirty p.m. Whats your name, son?
Trent. Trent the thief. Where am I?
Luna.
Thats not funny.
The fair planet Luna, western foot of the Caucasus mountain chain, United 
Nations territory, in the bolt-hole of a man whose name is Nathan Dark Clouds. 
The man whose name was Nathan Dark Clouds leaned forward in his webchair, hands 
on knees. And an odd thing you are, Trent the thief. I have so many questions I 
hardly know where to start.
Wait. For the first time Trent noticed that he was no longer wearing the 
pressure suit, or the female Peaceforcers uniform. I only have a few. Can I 
ask mine first?
Nathan nodded. Go ahead.
How far am I from Free Luna?
You were headed there?
Yes.
The older man nodded again, thoughtfully. I thought. Were a fair piece from 
there. The nearest enclave is at the edge of Bessel Crater, in Serenitatis. Damn 
near 750 klicks southeast, and you have to get up over the Caucasus mountains 
first. Say, two days by crawler.
Okay  how long ago did I crash?
About eight hours ago. They say that any landing you walk away from is a good 
one, and you walked away from that one, so that must have been a good landing. 
Nathan shook his head. Theres something wrong with that saying. I saw that 
landing; I was out in my chameleon, heading here, when your ship went down. I 
changed course, found you lying in the sun about an hour or so after the crash, 
picked you up, and headed here. He looked straight at Trent. That craft, it 
ran off an antimatter-initiated reaction?
I dont know how it works. It was a Rolls-Royce. There were bottled positrons.
That was my guess. If Id had any idea  well, youd still be lying out there 
in the sun. We were about eight kilometers from the crash site when the 
containment went on the positrons. He seemed to shiver. I poked my head 
outside just before you woke up. That whole section of the mountains is still 
glowing. That was a military ship you crashed in. It was not a question. You 
dont need to bottle that much antimatter for anything except a weapon.
You must know the Peaceforcers are after me.
I guessed. About four oclock yesterday, there was a Level Four alert down 
here; restricted travel, check in with the local Peaceforcers, all that crap. I 
headed out for my bolt-hole, figuring to be as safe as possible if the PKF was 
planning a sweep of the undesirables. Among which number am I. The man 
shrugged. They should not find us. I sprayed dust all the way back from where I 
picked you up.
Sprayed dust?
No wind, Trent. You suck dust up as you go, spray it over your tail where 
youve been. Its a damn expensive mod to have done to a crawler, and using it 
costs a fair piece too, but if you want to assure you dont get followed its a 
necessity.
Trent nodded. What are you going to do about me?
Well, I wouldnt turn any man over to the Peaceforcers. They killed my wife. 
Beyond not turning you in, I havent thought at all.
Last question.
Yes?
Can I get something to drink? Anything? Lots of anything?
Nathan stood. I think I can manage that. You be getting your story ready. I do 
love a good story. He vanished through the open doorway.
Trent sat upright more slowly, ignoring the quick sharp pain in his ribs. Nathan 
had taped his ribs, he noted, and splinted one finger of Trents right hand; the 
skin of his face was sunburned, one cheek was swollen and tender, and there was 
a terrible pain in his knee again. Trent tried to remember when he had reinjured 
the knee  the memory returned slowly.
Nathan came back shortly, a pair of squeeze bulbs in one hand. He tossed them to 
Trent, the bulbs performing a strange slow tumble as they fell.
Trent caught them left-handed, without thinking. He stared up at Nathan Dark 
Clouds. Did I  fall  down the mountain?
The ship did. Whether or not you were in it I have no idea.
Oh, slith. With his broken hand Trent gingerly touched his swollen knee. I 
remember His voice trailed away. He felt himself shivering. Never mind. Just 
never mind. He looked at the squeeze bulbs for the first time. Thanks. He 
turned the ring on the first bulbwatersucked it dry and then drank the second 
bulb only slightly more slowly.
Nathan leaned forward again, hands on knees. He seemed to be enjoying himself 
immensely. Now, Trent the thief, youre breathing my air and drinking my water. 
Ive saved your life and bandaged your wounds. Now, tell me if you will, Trent 
the thief, how it is you come to be crashing a military spacecraft some few 
kilometers from my bolt-hole, with a briefcase full of sophisticated 
electronics, wearing a PKF p-suit that says Lieutenant Charbrier, a female 
Peaceforcers uniform, and a pair of SpaceFarer boots from the Flandry.
How do you know that?
Its my turn to
How do you know that?
Nathan sighed. Youre going to be a hard man to get along with, Trent the 
thief. The p-suit says PKF on it, the uniform is cut for a girl with tits, and 
the boots are gray with green threading. Ugliest damn thing I ever saw.
You recognize SpaceFarer colors?
Nathan stared at him. Trent, lad, you dont seem to understand the situation 
here. This is my
Trent interrupted. Okay, dont get stuffy. Lets see. He paused. I was going 
to steal a spaceship  no, no, thats too far in. See, there I was in the Down 
Plaza and He stopped. Im not sure where to start.
The beginning? the man suggested.
You see, there was this Peaceforcer and he wouldnt listen to me, Trent said 
earnestly, and then stopped again. Its a long story.
We have lots of time.
They think I killed a Peaceforcer.
Nathan Dark Clouds said mildly, Trent the thief, other people have killed 
Peaceforcers. None of them triggered a Level Three Earth-Luna alert, a Level 
Four Lunar alert.
Brass balls.
What?
He was a Peaceforcer Elite.
Moving slowly, Nathan turned to face Trent squarely. His right eyebrow climbed 
exactly one centimeter. What?
It was a mistake.
A mistake.
An accident.
An acc
He was trying to kill me and he fell.
Fell repeated Nathan.
Well, jumped. Off a spacescraper. Trent shivered slightly, remembering. It 
was a long way down.
Nathans eyes wandered aimlessly around the room before settling on Trent again. 
Trent. Trent the thief. Tell me what has happened. Start at the beginning. Work 
your way to the end. Take all the time you need.
Trent leaned back against the wall behind him. It was rough and unpolished. He 
started off with a reasonably detailed outline of the events of the last several 
days, not mentioning Denice Castanaveras at all. At first he was not entirely 
certain that Nathan Dark Clouds was listening to him; the man sat quietly 
through the first telling of the story, and only then started asking questions. 
He started at the top of Trents story and worked his way down, calmly, without 
fuss, as though he did not attach any great significance to Trents answers.
Nathan Dark Clouds was very, very good. They were nearly half an hour into it 
when Trent realized he was being interrogated, forty-five minutes into it when 
he knew how well it was being done. Trent found himself backtracking, answering 
questions about subjects he had already lied about, fielding questions about 
other almost entirely unrelated subjects, reanswering rephrased questions he had 
already lied about twice. Nathan fed him back his own answers, subtly distorted, 
and waited for Trent to correct him. Two solid hours passed in the telling and 
retelling of the story; when Nathan announced himself satisfied with Trents 
final version of what had happened to him, Trent was shaking with exhaustion.
Only once in the course of that two-hour interrogation did Trent see the man at 
a loss for words. There was a waldo waiting for you inside the store? Those 
damn things are more indestructible than an Elite.
Trent mumbled an answer.
Nathan said, What?
There was a bazooka in the bathroom, Trent said more loudly.
Say again?
Well, a rocket launcher of some kind. I dont really know a lot about weapons.
In the bathroom, said Nathan without inflection.
I only kept it, said Trent defensively. It wasnt even mine. It was there 
when I moved in. I dont know why.
At the end, when Trent was yawning hugely, Nathan stood. Trent, you are just 
maybe the fastest-thinking young man Ive ever met.
Thank you.
Lying to the man whos just saved your life, said Nathan Dark Clouds softly, 
whos of half a mind to put you up out in death pressure in the first place, is 
probably not wise.
Trent could not think of anything at all to say.
Nathan said, Good night, lad. Without further comment, he scaled the sunpaint 
down to blackness, and left Trent alone.
In the dark, Trent pulled his briefcase to him, opened it, and checked his 
supplies. He had a curiously naked feeling, and for a moment could not decide 
why.
Just before sleep claimed him, Trent swore at himself sleepily. You stupid 
genejunk. You lost the squirt gun.

He jerked awake twice, to darkness and panic, to a sensation his body insisted 
on interpreting as falling. Both times Trent oriented himself, remembered where 
he was and why he was there, and settled back down on the soft padding to sleep.
He awoke the third time to a generalized ache. He sat up slowly and rested in 
the utter darkness against the wall at his back. The darkness was incredible. 
Trent held his hand in front of his face and could not see a thing. The lack of 
sound was nearly as absolute; if he strained he could make out the gentle 
whisper of the ventilators forcing air through the room. He sat motionlessly for 
a while after that, just letting himself acclimate to the absurd feeling of 
lightness, listening to his body. He hurt literally everywhere, in every muscle 
in his body, as though somebody who really knew what he was doing had worked him 
over. His knee was out again; Trent could barely stand to straighten it fully. 
The rib he had broken was bearable so long as he breathed shallowly.
His right hand 
Jesus-H.-Christ-on-a-stick. The Temple Dragons weapons instructor was an old 
Puerto Ricanforty, easy, thought Trentwhose name was Mitch. They were 
practicing that morning, all the Temple Dragons fifteen or under, in an 
abandoned brick warehouse across the street from the Temple. Mitch was rubbing 
the line of his jaw, and Jimmy Ramirez was on his knees on the mat, clutching 
his left hand. Jimmy, you is such a dumb fuck. He took careful aim and kicked 
Jimmy Ramirez in the face and then turned to face the boys standing against the 
wall. Listen up, Dragons. When you got no gun and you got to hit, I mean no 
choice, then you remember this. Hit hard pans with something harder. You want to 
use your hand, fine. You hit the man in the throat, you hit him in the nuts, you 
hit him right under the heart. Jimmy Ramirez was lying on the ground, curled up 
into a ball. Mitch kicked him again, harder. Else you end up like this tough 
boy. Im gon have me a sore jaw all day. But Jimmy Mitch smiled at them, at 
Trent. Jimmy, he a dead fuck.
Mitch had died shortly after that, in one of the endless property disputes with 
the Gypsy Macoute; until now, sitting alone in the dark beneath the surface of 
Luna, Trent could not remember having thought of the old Temple Dragon even once 
in all the years since Mitchs death.
It had taken him six years to get out of the Fringe. Six long years filled with 
more pain and genuine anger than Trent allowed himself to remember most of the 
time.
And then, the Patrol Sectors. For all of seven months. Learning how to walk down 
a street again without having to check for men wearing the green-and-yellow 
Macoute bandanas. The simple shock of seeing Peaceforcers again, for the first 
time since the establishment of the Patrol Sectors had left Trent stuck on Long 
Island, inside the Fringe with no legal way to get out.
Dealing with the BloodSilk Boys, who thought they were tough even though they 
had a name with the word silk in it.
Dealing with the Peaceforcers.
He sat alone, in the utter dark and impossible lightness, for what seemed to him 
a very long time.
Thinking about dealing with the Peaceforcers.
At length he said, Johnny?
The voice emanated from a patch of darkness off somewhere to Trents right. Hi, 
Boss. How are you feeling?
I think Ill live. Once I get something to eat I might even want to. Johnny 
Johnny, how much free storage do you have in the handheld?
Not much, Boss. I stored most of our files from the apartment when you said you 
were coming to get me. Id feel a lot safer if I could put it into offline 
storage somewhere.
Soon, Johnny. Do you have enough left to store some books?
Johnny Johnny snorted audibly. You must be kidding. At the speed you read? I 
can store so much you wouldnt finish it this century.
Trent smiled. Then lets get to work.

Nathan was gone.
There were three rooms and an airlock. The pressure suit Trent had crashed in 
was gone. One of the rooms, the smallest, was a kitchen with an airplant in it; 
another, the room Trent had slept in, was clearly a bedroom. The third and 
largest room was an equipment storage garage. Two spare pressure suits hung on 
its walls, and laser drills were stacked carefully in one corner next to a tool 
rack which held tools for, Trent guessed after a brief examination, repairs for 
some sort of heavy equipment.
The airlock was in the garage; Trent could find no air bottles for the spare 
pressure suits.
In the corner of the garage was the oldest systerm Trent had ever seen in his 
life.
There was a note for Trent on the systerm.
Have gone to Luna City at Copernicus, Back late tomorrow. Food in cold spot in 
kitchen. Stove is electric grill on south wall of kitchen. First-aid kit in 
kitchen; the medbot inside is stupid, but dont argue with it, you wont win.
Will be letting friends at Aristillus Mining Co. know that nephew is arriving 
shortly from Earth; I am troubleshooter there, can easily arrange work for a man 
of your talents. Picking up clothing for you, soft p-suit; basic kit. Will clip 
you 850 Credit Units for p-suit, 15 for clothing; throw in 10 CU for trouble 
youre putting me to. Start thinking of way to pay me back. Nathan.
Wandering into the kitchen, Trent found the cold spot to be nothing more than a 
vacuum-enclosed partition set in shadow. Trent fried himself a chicken sandwich; 
it wasnt until he caught the aroma of the frying chicken patty that he realized 
how ravenously hungry he was. He ate it while frying another two sandwiches.
Back in the garage, Trent seated himself in front of Nathans computer. It was 
at least twenty years old, probably older. The caps on the pointboard were worn 
down so that the letters could not be seen on most of them. The unit had a bulky 
monitor rather than a holofield for viewing. There were jacks on the unit for 
tape and infochip and MPU attachments, but none for the standard optical 
interface Trents handheld used. It took Trent nearly two hours before he had 
the pinouts on the keyboards MPU slot traced correctly; the systerms System 
Tools were almost useless. The protocol the systerm used was clearly an ancestor 
of the protocols Trent had grown up with, but they were incredibly slow and 
lacked options as basic as autohelp and abbreviated command syntax. It took him 
most of the first hour to find the help file which listed the MPU slots 
pinouts, and another hour, using invisibly thin drops of cold solder, to link 
the handhelds MPU slot to the MPU slot on the pointboard.
Johnny Johnny said, Checking  got it. You misconnected pins 105 and 241 on my 
end, and pins 241 and 98 on the other end. Im compensating. Also I have cross 
talk on the other end from pins 62 and 63, but theres nothing critical on those 
lines. What now?
What can you tell me about where we are?
Checking  not very damn much. Local infobases are supposed to be small, but 
this is ridiculous. Theres only fifteen gigabytes of local storage and 
two-thirds of it is empty. What the hell is this thing, anyway?
Uh  FrancoDEC RISC Mark II, it says on the monitor. Theres nothing on the 
pointboard, and Id guess the processors are actually in that.
Whatever, its slow damn hardware, Boss. Is there a traceset around here 
anywhere? I could really use some help.
Afraid not, Johnny. I lost the traceset somewhere along the line.
lost the traceset, lost the ship, lost the goddamn full sensory all the way 
back on another planet Johnny Johnnys voice was rising.
Johnny!
what?
Command, set null emote.
There was a brief pause; Johnny Johnnys voice resumed without any notable 
emotion whatsoever. Gotcha. Sorry about that, Boss.
Its all right, I wrote the code. Remind me to debug you when theres time. 
Postcrisis routines.
Will do. Lets see  cant tell you much about where we are, Boss. The system 
connects to a private-enterprise LINthats moontalk for Lunar Information 
Network, Bossconnects to a LIN satellite through a maser linkup on the 
surface. Aristillus Investment Group owns the satellite. Were about fifteen 
meters beneath the surface. The system has no outside sensors, no eyes, no ears. 
It does control the radar; theres a pretty good radar system scanning the 
approaches to thebolt-hole, I guess its called?
Thats the phrase Nathan used.
Okay. Were on the east edge of a fairly small crater, just beneath a small 
overhang; except at sunset the entrance should be in shadow all the time. Were 
pretty well hidden. Johnny Johnny paused. We need to be extra careful about 
going dancing in the Lunar InfoNet, Boss.
How so?
Only one channel in and out of this place. Assuming web angelsare there web 
angels on the Moon, Boss?
Dont know. Well find out.
Assuming web angels, tracking us back to our point of origin would be so simple 
it scares me. Theres also security everywhere like Ive never seen before 
outside of Space Force and PKF Boards. Requests for help are met with demands 
for ID and/or passwords, everywhere I go.
Chill things a bit, Johnny, theres no hurry. What do you legitimately have 
access to?
Half a dozen public-access Boards, Luna City Library, and the Aristillus 
Investment Groups Board. Basically what Sieur Dark Clouds has available to 
him. Interesting thing about Sieur Dark Clouds, Bosshes not Amerindian.
Youre sure? He looks it.
Gene chart is all wrong, Boss. He has his med records in here; genetically hes 
a fairly standard European gene chartCaucasian, of English, German, or quite 
possibly French descent. No mongrelization to speak of. Positively no Mongoloid 
genes.
Fascinating, Trent murmured. Thats fairly major bio-sculpture, then. He 
filed the subject for the moment. I want data, Johnny. Data on Lunar InfoNet, 
biosculptors, inskin vendors.
About time!
Save it. Also Lunar society, maps, businesses, Peaceforcers, 
SpaceFarer-associated businesses, Johnny Rebs and Erisian Claw, Syndic and Tong. 
Am I missing anything?
Yep. Immigrant and Visitors Guide to Survival, by M. Garcia. Subtitled, 
Learn Quick or Die. Procedural on soft pressure suits and how to buy one, what 
to do in case of emergencies with rolligons or crawlers or Bulletthe Bullets 
called a monorail up herefirst aid for people subjected to temporary death 
pressure, specifics on anoxia and pressure-suit air mix. Lists the seventeen 
commonest ways visitors and immigrants to Luna die. Johnny Johnny paused. I 
highly recommend you audit this.
You have?
Just now. Good book, Boss. Theres a section on scalesuitsword comes from 
either scaled-down spaceship or else from the fact that theyve got armor that 
looks like fish scales on them, nobody seems to knowthat you really need to 
read.
Store it in the handheld.
Done.
Lets get to work.
Some of you, said the brochure, will have played at webdancing on Earth. Its 
possible you are inclined to attempt webdancing while visiting Luna.
Dont.
On Earth webdancing is a misdemeanor; in Luna it is a felony punishable by 
deportation to Earth, assignation to convict labor, or immediate execution.
There is a one-and-a-half-second lightspeed delay in communications between 
Earth and Luna, a three-second round-trip delay. Effectively, this means that 
Luna and Earth havemust haveseparate InfoNets. Policing Earths InfoNet, with 
its hundreds of millions of Boards, with nearly three billion adults who 
interact with the InfoNet on a daily basis and six billion who interact with the 
InfoNet in an average week, is effectively impossible. Despite the valorous 
efforts of the Earth-based DataWatch, only the most egregious violations of 
InfoNet procedures are ever punished.
Luna is a hostile new world. The line between survival and death is a fine one; 
we cannot allow the tools of our survival to be corrupted for any reason 
whatsoever.
Therefore, the Lunar Bureau of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force DataWatch 
has created the LINK, the Lunar Information Network Key. There are currently 
9,402 Boards on Luna; new Boards must be licensed before they can rent 
lasercable access. Every transactionevery single transactionwhich takes place 
in the Lunar InfoNet is keyed and tracked on an item-by-item basis. The basis of 
this unprecedented degree of InfoNet security is the Lunar Information Network 
Key. The Key is an unbreakable encryption device which the DataWatch employs to 
validate and track every user in the Lunar InfoNet. Webdancers attempting 
unauthorized access to logic, to data, to communications facilities, will be 
punished to the full extent of the law.
The last paragraph of the brochure said:
Those webdancers who call themselves Players are invitedno, encouragedto 
attempt to crack the Lunar InfoNet. Images are illegal in Luna; possession of 
Image software or coprocessor hardware is a capital crime.
Gee, Boss, Johnny Johnny muttered, are you sure we cant go home?
Afraid not. Not for a while, Johnny. After a moment Trent added slowly, You 
could look at the LINK as a challenge, I suppose.
Johnny Johnnys answer was instantaneous. Lets not.
Trent was sitting before Nathans systerm, reading on the handhelds holofield, 
when Nathan Dark Clouds returned.
He had no warning, not even from the radar system; the first he knew of Nathans 
return was when the airlock cycled open and a pressure-suited figure strode 
through carrying a limp pressure suit over its shoulder. Nathan hung the second 
pressure suit on a hook next to the other two empty pressure suits; it hung a 
full ten centimeters lower to the floor than the first two. He unlocked his neck 
ring and pulled his helmet off. Hello, Trent. Youre looking well. How do you 
feel?
Not bad, Trent said mildly. Im probably going to need to see a real doctor, 
or at least a good medbot, for my knee. But in this gravity it hardly matters.
Nathan glanced at Trent while wriggling out of his pressure suit. Theres 
advantages to living in Luna, to be sure. Even to living in Unification 
territory. Living longer and healing faster than downsiders are two of them.
Of course, said Trent with a perfectly straight face, to take advantage of 
those advantages you need to avoid being one of those foolish criminals who die 
from crashing and blowing up their stolen Rolls-Royce yachts.
Youve been in my systerm.
Of course.
Nathan nodded thoughtfully. He was almost out of his pressure suit; Trent 
watched him with interest as he finished wriggling out. His guess had been 
correct, he noted; you were not supposed to wear bulky clothing or boots inside 
a pressure suit. For a fact, Nathan said at last, youve had a fair piece of 
luck. Those stories youve been reading on my systerm arent just official line; 
the PKF really thinks youre dead.
Trent turned off the holofield and the book it was displaying. You know so well 
what the PKF thinks?
The muscles in the back of Nathans neck tensed visibly, then relaxed. Space 
Force has no significant presence downside, I know that. How many Peaceforcers 
are there on Manhattan Island, Trent?
Trent did not even need to think. Two hundred and ten thousand.
Nathan hung his suit, took a soft cloth off a hook on the wall next to it, and 
began wiping the suit down. Out of a permanent population of what, twelve 
million?
Counting the spacescrapers, yes. Theres three million just in the 
spacescrapers.
Trent, Manhattan is renowned for the huge number of Peaceforcers who are 
stationed there. Its practically a clich. But when you do the numbers it only 
comes out to being one Peaceforcer for every sixty permanent Manhattanites. 
Taking into account the daily commute onto the island, the number drops to 
nearly one in ninety. There are, said Nathan Dark Clouds evenly, glancing up at 
Trent, twenty-eight million people in United Nations territory in Luna. He 
knelt, began wiping a fine layer of dust off the pressure suits boots. Eight 
hundred fifty thousand of them are either PKF or Space Force. It comes to about 
one in thirty-three. The next war, Trent, its not going to be fought on Earth, 
and the U.N. knows it. Folks in Luna, he said quietly, SpaceFarers and 
immigrants and native loonies alike, watch the Peaceforcers as though their 
lives depended on knowing what the PKF is going to do next. They watch Space 
Force almost as closely.
Trent said mildly, Okay, so Im dead. Its fine by me.
Nathan looked at him sharply, seemed about to say something, and then said, 
Whatve you been doing?
Trent leaned back in the webchair, put his feet up on the table before the 
systerm. Auditing the Boards you have access to, reading.
About?
The Moon. The Lunar Information Network, PKF on the Moon, SpaceFarers, major 
Lunar cities, Space Force on the Moon, natives of the Moon and their prejudices 
against immigrants and which of those prejudices are valid and why. Accounts of 
attempts Players and webdancers have made to dance in the LIN, and why in the 
past the Key encryption has stopped them. Scalesuitsthey sound fascinating, 
Nathan. Why dont you own one?
Nathan shrugged. A matter of taste. I dont trust them. Theyve only been 
around eight, nine years, and the technologys not really ironed out yet. The 
PKF uses them because its cheaper than turning a man into a cyborg and gives 
you some of the same results. Theyre very popular in Free Luna for the same 
reasonthe powered assists and radiation armoring and airplant. I dont like 
them much; theres a lot of metal in them, and if anything goes wrong with the 
servo assists youre stuck there with two hundred ten kilosmass, not Lunar 
weightof not-very-flexible metal armor to haul around on your own muscles. 
Somebody fresh from Earth can do that, mind you, or anybody whos kept up his 
weight trainingme, for examplebut theres not many in Luna that description 
covers. Native loonies are really stuck with the damn things; they need the 
power assist more than immigrants from Earth do, for obvious reasons, but if the 
suit dies out in the field on them, where help isnt close, its practically a 
death sentence. Damn things are a disaster waiting to happen, some ways. And 
now, he concluded, with all that, you might still want to look at one when you 
come to Aristillus with me. They have a regenerative airplant thats the nicest 
innovation Ive seen on a p-suit in my lifetime; stretches your time in the 
field up to thirty or forty hours, and with the radiation shielding built into 
them its practical to stay out that long. He changed the subject abruptly. 
What else have you been up to?
Aside from reading? Not very much, really. I opened an account with the United 
Nations Interplanetary Bank at Aristillus, transferred funds from a pair of 
accounts on Earth, and then paid your account at UNIB Aristillus one thousand 
CUfor the trouble Ive put you to.
Nathan stood slowly, hung the rag on its hook on the wall. You moved Credit 
from accounts on Earth, accounts which DataWatch may or may not have tagged, to 
UNIB Aristillus, and from there to my bank account? The man stared at Trent.
Trent said flatly, It was safe.
If you
It was safe. Trent said evenly, You have to trust me on that. Im a good 
liar, Nathan, and Im a good thief and a decent painter. Nathan, Im a great 
Player. I know the InfoNet on Earth better than DataWatch ever will. It was 
safe.
For a long moment the man did not even blink. Finally Nathan sighed, nodded, 
accepting it. Okay. Thank you for the thousand CU. I hadnt planned to make a 
profit from helping you, but I certainly dont mind.
Trent nodded also, and continued. One other thing I got done while you were 
gone: I figured out why I was alive.
Well, theres a straight line if you like.
Seriously, Nathan. The missile Vance sent after me. Melting temperature.
Im not following.
Vance is a smart man. I didnt think brass balls came that smart. It took me 
three hours to work this out; he thought of it in something like twenty seconds. 
Say you fire three, four missiles in their siloseven knowing theyll simply be 
destroyed. The heat from those explosions would have melted the fineline I tied 
them with long before it significantly damaged the other missiles; those things 
are designed to fly through rocket exhaust. Shock waves would probably kill a 
couple of nearby missiles; flak would kill a lot of the rest. But if you fire 
your three, four missiles, all from one end of the bunker, theres a good chance 
that the missiles at the other end will survive long enough to get a couple out. 
Thats all it would have taken, Nathan. Two missiles instead of one; Id be 
dead.
Nathan said softly, Boy, you should be dead twenty times over no matter how you 
look at it.
Trent was silent for several seconds, and then smiled at Nathan Dark Clouds. 
Thats truer than you know. I owe the Peaceforcers a lot. He was silent again, 
and then said softly, An awful lot.
Nathan said quietly, What are you going to do?
I havent decided yet.
You cant beat them, Trent.
Oh?
When I was young, said Nathan Dark Clouds, and stupidabout six years agoI 
was a member of the Speed Enthusiasts Organization.
Trent nodded. Id guessed you were a Speedfreak.
All we did, Trent, was we wanted to drive our own cars. And the fuckers went 
and outlawed them. Even after all the time, the amazement was still there in 
the mans voice. So my reaction time isnt as fast as a chips. My judgments a 
hell of a lot better. He was silent a moment, then shook his head. Water over 
the bridge. The arguments done, we lost it. But we attempted civil 
disobedience, Trent, almost two million of us set out from San Diego in a 
convoy, set out to do the Long Run. Thats what we called them, the Long Runs, 
all the way around the world without stopping, without ever touching down on the 
goddamn dirt. Wed done thousands of Long Runs by 63, as individuals and in 
convoys. Speedfreak chapters used to pay to send members on the Long Run as 
presents, or rewards.
In 63 two million Speedfreaks set out to do the biggest damn Long Run ever. 
Out of San Diego, to Hawaii, to Australia, over India, through Israel, through 
France, and then into the Atlantic for the trip to Capitol City. Nathans voice 
had grown harsh, strident. The Unification Council called it treason, and we 
died, Trent. The Bureau of Weather Control hit us with a goddamn hurricane and 
eighty-five percent of us died and the ones who didnt were mostly picked up and 
tried for treason, they executed two hundred and thirty Speedfreaks and sent 
fifteen thousand into Public Labor for the rest of their lives. The fierce 
glare did not leave Trent for an instant. I was there. I was on the Long Run 
and I survived.
It took Trent a moment to find his voice.
Faster, faster, faster, he said softly, until the thrill of speed overcomes 
the fear of death.
Nathan blinked, and then smiled almost against his will. Where did you hear 
that?
Trent said distantly, thoughtfully, You made mistakes, you know. First, there 
were too many of you. You stood up and let them take aim, and then you were 
surprised when they blew you to hell.
Nathan was staring at him. Son, they shot my wife. They killed most of my 
friends. They
Trent cut him off. Theyre practical. Trent looked up, met Nathans stare. 
Very. Thats the first thing to know about the Peaceforcers, they always do the 
sensible thing. The second thing to know is that you can beat them. I have to 
believe that, Nathan. If I dont believe that, really believe it where it 
counts, I might as well have died out there in that crashed Rolls.
A deeply disturbed expression had settled on the wrinkled countenance. Son, 
youre wrong. And youre
Im not your son.
I wake up every day, Trent, and I realize again how much life is worth living.
Trent said, I dont want to die, Nathan. He locked eyes with the old man and 
when he spoke there was an edge in his voice that he had not intended to put 
there. But I am not going to lose again.




2-
 ^  
Luna City at Copernicus was built, SpaceFarers like to observe, by downsiders.
And it shows.
It is the oldest city on the Moon, and in this instance the use of the word on 
is correct; it is one of only five bubble cities on the entire planet. It is in 
one of the most visible craters on Luna, a crater visible from Earth even by 
eye. It makes a convenient astrogation aid for visitors from other worlds.
It is, say loonies and SpaceFarers alike, one of the half-dozen worst places on 
the Moons entire surface to put a city. It is ringed by a crater wall which 
rises over three and a half kilometers above the crater floor, in the midst of 
some of the most rugged territory to be found on Luna.
All of which means that travel to and from Luna City, except by suborbital 
bounce or spacecraft, is something which loonies and SpaceFarers alike avoid at 
all costs.
Trents first sight of Luna City was unimpressive. He arrived in public 
transport, a rolligon from Aristillus, on Saturday, September 15, in the midst 
of nearsides two-week Lunar night. The rolligon spent nearly four hours just 
crawling up the side of Copernicus crater, on a laser-cut road that was just 
wide enough for two rolligons to pass side by side. From the vantage point of 
the lip of Copernicus, Luna City, as seen through a cloudy sheet of reinforced 
glassite, was a glowing translucent bubble in the midst of gleaming square 
kilometers of solar power panels, surrounded by tiny illuminated red- and-yellow 
patches where semiballistics and spacecraft landed, and all of that surrounded 
by the dark Lunar desert. The solar power panels, by themselves, were enough to 
mark the citys age; cheap fusion power had not even existed when Luna City was 
built.
On landing in the waiting room of the Blain Trading Emporium, Trent said, 
Mademoiselle?
In the maglev, coming down, Trent had noted that the levels were numbered in 
reverse, just like in the Down Plaza; it made him feel almost immediately at 
home.
The pregnant girl behind the desk, not older than twenty, with long red hair and 
an exquisite silver-blue skin dye, did not quite make a question of it when she 
said, May I help you, sir, her tone making it clear that the subject was in 
considerable doubt.
Trent looked at her blankly. I have an appointment with Sieur Blain.
The girl said with just a touch of impatience, Monsieur Blain, sir, has only 
one appointment today, with a professional computerist whos recently immigrated 
to Luna. Hes reserved most of the afternoon for him, and I dont believe hell 
have time for The receptionists voice trailed off. Trent was grinning at her. 
She said Monsieur Vera?
Hello.
Oh. Youre late.
I got lost on the way here. This is my first time in the city.
Youre not very old.
Trent said gently, Will you tell Sieur Blain that Im here?
Oh. Yes. Uhm, go in. She blushed purple through the skin dye. Hes expecting 
you, actually.
Trent smiled at her again. When are you due?
The girl blinked, and them smiled back rather tentatively. Early November.
Whats your name?
Sidrah. Sidrah Blain.
Nice to meet you, Sidrah.
Candice Candy Blains office was positively Spartan. There was a single huge 
desk of wood-grain polymer, with a systerm and pointboard built into the desks 
surface. The holofield the systerm used for display was up; Trent could see the 
faint and nearly invisible outline, all the sign the holofield gave of its 
existence to somebody sitting on the wrong side of the desk.
Other than the systerm itself the desk was nearly empty; on it sat a thin, tall 
cup next to a sealed thermos. There was a single visitors chair immediately in 
front of the desk.
There was a short, broad, utterly bald man sitting behind the desk, watching 
Trent with all the expression of a hard-boiled egg. He sported a huge red 
handlebar mustache. Youre Nathans nephew? he boomed out of a barrel chest.
Thomas Vera, said Trent. He grasped the hand that Blain, standing to extend 
over the desk, had offered him, and Blain enfolded his hand in a bone-crusher 
handshake. It was Trents right hand, and even after being treated by the medbot 
at Aristillus, Blains grip hurt. Trent stood motionlessly, with a half-smile 
still on his features, squeezing back until Blain pulled his hand away with a 
grimace of pain.
Blain seated himself slowly, clenching and unclenching the hand Trent had taken. 
You got a hell of a grip there, Mister Vera. Nathan said you were a 
computerist?
Trent seated himself, still smiling. I used to box semipro. I try to stay in 
shape.
Youre not quite what Id expected. Bigger, among other things. The call I got 
from Nathan, he says youre six different kinds of computerist; webdancer, 
programmer, theorist, designer, field techhow old are you? Blain said 
abruptly.
Trent said evenly, UNIB Aristillus, Account VERA1505. You can look it up.
Blain tapped at his pointboard with two fingers, glanced at the balance shown in 
the holofield. He cleared the field, and smiled at Trent as though it hurt his 
face.  Sieur Vera, how can I help you?
I need tools.
Blain nodded. Ive got half a dozen BB kits covering most of the tool needs the 
average computerist has. If we can modify from that
Trent interrupted. My needs are unusual. If all I wanted, Sieur Blain, was a 
standard Black Box tool kit, I could have ordered it from the catalog myself.
 Unusual? Blain lifted one red eyebrow. As in illegal? Image coprocessors, 
that sort of thing?
That sort of thing, Trent agreed.
Candy Blain paused, obviously wondering whether what he was about to say might 
endanger his chances of making a sale. Thomasyou dont mind if I call you 
Thomasyour uncles been on Luna six years now. Thats not such a terribly long 
time, reallyjust about one in four of the folks here in Luna were born herebut 
in those six years hes done pretty well for himself. Especially considering 
hes ex-Speedfreak, and pretty much everybody knows it He seemed to shift 
subject. I hit Luna four years ago Tuesday last. Ministry of Population Control 
trouble; my family and I had a squad of six babyburners on our tail all the way 
to Navajo Spaceport. Barely did get awayafter we lifted the babyburners got on 
the radio and told the SpaceFarers ship we were on to drop us off at Halfway. 
They didnt do it, so here I am today, a respected member of the community with 
a business that actually turns a profit every now and again. And theres your 
uncle, prime candidate for Public Labor back on Earth, a bit better respected 
than I am even. A lot of the people who emigrated here, Thomas, they did it 
because the walls were closing in on them downside. And then they started over, 
clean. PKF mostly doesnt care what you did downside, and there aint no 
babyburners up here at allLunas still badly underpopulated.
Trent said, On the maser.
Blain paused, train of thought obviously derailed. What?
The baby chasers. When they tried to stop the ship you were on. To reach a ship 
near Earth they would have used maser, not radio.
Blain stared at Trent. The point Im making here, holding an Image coprocessor 
is a death-penalty crime up here, Thomas, unless you immigrated with it as part 
of your inskin and couldnt take it outand you pretty much have to be a U.N. 
webdancer, in some capacity, to get even that much slack.
So?
Do you really need one?
I have another source for an Image coprocessor, Sieur Blain. I need things, 
said Trent, that are even more illegal than that. Nathan said you do work for 
the Syndic and the Old Ones and that you could get what I need. Are you going to 
take my order or not?
Beneath the mustache, Blains mouth set in a hard line. Give me your order.
Trent said, You might want to take this down.
Blain tapped instructions into his systerm. A feminine voice said, Recording.
Trent reached across the desk, typed recoff, and struck the enter point. I 
dont like having my voice print taken.
Blain stared at Trent again.
You might want to type this.
Slowly, with plain distaste, the small man poised two fingers above the 
pointboard, and said without civility, Talk.
Trent spoke slowly, watching Blains two fingers, giving the man time to type. 
Monofilament, two reels; room-temperature superconductor, one reel; two-stage 
electrosetting mappable blast plastic, one kilo; one collapsing portable Slo-Mo 
fast enough to make liquid air with; two pencil lasers, one ultraviolet and one 
X-laser, two kilos of Complex 8-A
Blain interrupted. One moment. We may have some trouble with the fadeaway. He 
pecked away furiously as he talked. Peaceforcers have been cracking down on the 
stuff recently, ever since that Trent fellow zapped a bunch of them with it when 
he ran through Peaceforcer Heaven. If I dont have some in stock we might not 
He stopped, looking into the holofield. Okay. Eighty grams liquid still in 
stock, and I can get more within, say, three weeks. Hope that warehouse hasnt 
been raided recently. He turned back to Trent. Go ahead.
Trent smiled pleasantly at Blain, reached across the desk, and turned off the 
recorder function again. Do you have a problem with me?
Aside from not liking you very much, said Candice Blain deliberately, not 
really.
Good. Lets continue. It took most of five minutes, and the final total came 
to over seven thousand CU.
When Trent was completely done, Blain said, Where do you want this stuff 
delivered?
Nathans apartment, said Trent, in Aristillus.
Blain nodded shortly. Give it six to ten days.
Trent said, Its been a pleasure doing business. He gestured behind himself, 
to the receptionists area. The receptionistyour daughter?
My wife. The muscles in Blains jaw were twitching. Shes really gorgeous. Is 
she Candice Blain snapped, Get out. Trent smiled at him. I was never here.

Luna City reminded Trent of the Down Plaza grown a thousand times larger.
There were three levels beneath the bubble but above-ground, eleven levels that 
were, properly speaking, underground. Four of the levels, the bottommost four, 
were purely residential. Levels U1 through U7 were a mixture of residences and 
businesses; everything aboveground, on the A levels, was dedicated to business.
The leasing agent was a native loonie, a tall woman some two hundred and twenty 
centimeters in height. She scowled impatiently, looking pointedly at her Rolex, 
when Trent arrived at the apartment on U2.  Sieur Vera?
Hello, said Trent. Im sorry Im
Youre late, she said flatly.
I know, Im sorry I got lost and there were no maps and
You will find, Sieur Vera, she said severely, that punctuality is a trait 
thought highly of in Luna.
Trent stood completely motionless for a moment, and then said evenly, As 
opposed to courtesy, I suppose. Id like to see my apartment now.
Down payment on the three-bedroom apartment came to 135 CU; Trent arranged to 
take possession of the rooms on the first of October. He walked up a series of 
long ramps, past hundreds of shoppers and business people and some fifteen 
Peaceforcers, until he reached A1, the first level from which it was possible to 
see, three levels above, the dome itself. As Trent reached higher levels, the 
percentage of people wearing pressure suits increased noticeably; on A1, with 
nothing but the dome to protect them from death pressure, at least fifty percent 
of the people in the plazas and corridors were either suited up or carrying 
p-suits with them.
At the center of the city were the Lunar Gardens, famous on Luna and off. The 
Gardens were a touch of Earth, grown strange and tall; huge trees, largely 
redwood and oaks, most of them reaching up so close to the dome itself that they 
had to be trimmed back regularly, reaching up away from a rainbow riot of 
flowers and shrubbery. The shrubbery was trimmed in the shapes of animals both 
real and imaginary; the flowers were genegineered roses and orchids and blood 
innocents, glowing orange and purple, yellow and pink, blue and bronze-gold 
beneath the Gardens sunpaint.
Trent walked all the way around the Gardens, a complete circuit on the 
cobblestone path, before heading to the bank.
There was a UNIB location at the very edge of the dome, right up against the 
ten-meter-high wall that the dome itself rested upon. He went inside and waited 
in line with half a dozen others until a teller was available.
It was fully five degrees cooler inside the bank than in the main dome. The 
teller, a burly man with Earth-grown muscles and distinctly effeminate 
mannerisms, checked Trents account and said politely, What can I do for you, 
Sieur Vera?
I need to place a direct call to Earth. I was hoping you might have a 
conference room I could use.
The man smiled at Trent, looking him up and down. I think we can arrange that.
The conference room Trent was ushered into was completely empty; the rooms 
single systerm was turned on, with a call sign hanging in the holofield. Trent 
jacked his handheld into the systerms interface and waited.
Johnny Johnny said almost instantly, Done. If anyones tapping this line at the 
bank end theyll see a recording of you and a banker type saying stupid things 
to one another. Youll be telling him to sell short Tytan Industries, and hell 
be telling you youre a fool.
Really? Trent blinked. Whos right?
There was a brief pause, and Johnny Johnny said, Aw, hell, Boss, I dont know. 
What do you think, I follow the stock market in my spare time?
Trent grinned. Sorry. When do we start?
Right now.
Trent took a deep breath. He was not at all surprised by the nervousness that 
came to him then. Okay.
Im waiting for an open linewere connected to the Earth InfoNet now through 
the Relay Station at Halfway. Waiting again for connection to the Northeast 
exchangeconnected. Coding for the Schuyler/Daimara residenceconnected.
Audio came on with an audible click. Video did not. Hello? The girls voice 
was hesitant and it hit Trent right in the stomach.
He took another slow, deep breath. Hello, Denice.
A three-second pause; the phonefield flared into color. Trent touched the video 
stud to one side of the pointboard to send his image back to her. Denice simply 
stared at the cameras at her end and
flicker of fire, of intimate touch 
A second and a half later her face lit up in a way Trent had never seen during 
the summer they had lived together. Trent? My God, its you!
Yes.
Three seconds. Youre alive! All the Boards said you were dead.
Never believe anything you audit on the Boards, Denice. Its all lies anyway 
except for the parts that arent.
I didnt believe you were dead. If you were dead I think I would have known. 
She paused, said questioningly, I dreamed you were hurt.
A little. Nothing major.
You look different. Youve had biosculpture?
No, makeup. Im going to have biosculpture soon.
Where are you calling from? Luna, from the delay, but where?
Luna City at Copernicus. Im sorry I havent called before, but this is the 
first time it was safe. I was at Aristillus for a week, and they have all of 
seventeen data lines going in and out of the entire city. Too small; too much 
chance of being monitored. Theres one hundred twenty thousand lines feeding 
Luna City; its probably safe. Trent grinned at her. Amazingly expensive, but 
safe. Have you had problems with the PKF?
Denice shook her head. They questioned pretty much everybody who admitted to 
knowing you, but nobody got brain-drained, and nobody mentioned me. One 
Peaceforcer actually came to the studiosapparently somebody at The Emerald 
Illusion recognized Madame Gleygavass the time she went dancing with usbut I 
told the Peaceforcer, when he came, that hed spoken to Madame Gleygavass and 
she didnt know anything about their problems. She shrugged. He thought it 
over and after he remembered the conversation he went away, and the PKF hasnt 
been near me since then. What have you been doing?
I just rented an apartment, and Im going to go see about biosculpt and an 
inskin next. In another two weeks I should be biosculpted, plugged in, and 
reasonably safe. He smiled, and said softly, Its not going to stay that way, 
of course.
What are you going to look like?
I havent decided yet. There was a small clock in the lower right corner of 
the holofield: two minutes, 180 CU. Hows it been since Ive been gone?
Madame Gleygavass took me out of the production of Leviathan. She said Id lost 
focus.
Is she right?
There was another pause not entirely due to the three-second lightspeed delay; 
Denice nodded slowly. I keep thinking about taking you out of the Detention 
Center. Her voice was very soft indeed. You know, I really enjoyed that. I 
enjoyed it more than anything else Ive ever done. I felt like Id accomplished 
something.
Sometimes, said Trent, you remind me of Carl a lot.
Thank you.
It wasnt a compliment. Trent continued without awaiting a reply: I dont 
think its a good idea for me to go back to New York, at least not any time 
soon, but after Ive done a couple of boosts up here, Id be able to afford the 
immigration fee, and you could join me.
I think The girl paused, features impenetrable, and then grinned at Trent 
again. I think Id really like that.
Good. Hows Jimmy?
Perhaps it was the delay; it seemed to Trent that she answered reluctantly. His 
legs are okay; Doctor Janes been growing an arm for him, but its not ready 
yet. Hes been using a prosthetic. Andshe did hesitate nowhes in law 
school.
Brutal.
He started this semester.
Trent shivered. The poor bastard.
He did it to himself.
True, too true  hows Bird and Jodi Jodi?
Johnny Johnny broke in. Tell Jodi Jodi that her brother says hello.
Denice smiled again. Ill do that. Birds okay; he was arrested on pickpocket 
charges, but Beth got him outChief Devlins been really good to everybody since 
you got chased off Earth by the PKF. Jodi Jodis fine too; talking about leaving 
the Red Line and starting her own business as a fashion consultant, but I dont 
think shes really going to. They keep giving her raises.
Trent glanced at the clock in the corner of the field. Im running out of time, 
Denice. This is costing more than I can afford right now.
She nodded. Send me a letter when youre settled.
I will. Trent checked the clock again; hed spent nearly four hundred CU 
already. Denice
Denice Castanaveras said, I know, Trent. I love you too. The field went dead.
Trent leaned back slowly in his chair, and sat there, arms crossed over his 
chest, looking at the empty phonefield.
Boss? Johnny Johnnys voice held genuine concern. You okay?
No. Not really, Johnny.
His Image was silent for a moment. Boss, do you love her?
Trent closed his eyes and thought about it. I dont know, Johnny. I dont know 
what that is. Sheshe thinks I do, said Trent slowly. I suppose she would 
know. He opened his eyes, stared into the glowing empty phonefield. You know, 
its strange. In my entire life theres only one thing Ive ever wanted, 
Johnny. Trents features were completely still. And shes it.
Boss?
Seven years, Johnny. And then I got three months.
There was silence from the handheld. When Johnny Johnny spoke his voice was 
smooth and even, almost uninflected. I dont know what to say, Boss. Im 
sorry.
I wish I could stop missing her.
Trent, its time to go.
After a long, cold moment, Trent touched his handheld to the systerms payment 
strip, waited for the light to go green, and then did leave.

The biosculptor had used her art upon herself; she was a walking advertisement.
Her offices were near the Hotel Copernicus, just south of the plight Caverns, 
with a view of the Luna City Gardens; it was easily the most expensive office 
space anywhere off Earth itself. The wall facing to the northwest was simply 
sheer oneway glassite, looking out over the gaunt and lanky oaks and redwoods in 
the Gardens. The lighting was subdued, glowpaint adjusted to a clean, 
professional white.
Katrina Trudeau was a Russo-Canadian who had emigrated to the Moon fifteen years 
prior. Her amber-red hair was styled in a pageboy cut, setting off gold-flecked 
eyes and skin that was the precise color of aged oak. At first glance her 
cheekbones seemed too high, but after a few moments Trent realized that they 
served to balance a mouth that would otherwise have been too wide. She was 
dressed in a jumpsuit that changed colors when she moved, odd patches going 
entirely transparent without any warning at all.
She was, in a word, stunning.
This is the disclaimer, Trudeau said pleasantly. I am required by law to 
inform you that Image coprocessor hardware and Image software are illegal on 
Luna. Further, it is against the law to engage in biosculpture for the specific 
purpose of evading legal responsibilities. It is illegal to engage in 
biosculpture if there is currently a warrant for your arrest extant on any part 
of Earth or in any part of Luna which is under the control of the United 
Nations. It is illegal to engage in biosculpture if there is currently a warrant 
for your arrest extant in Free Luna, the SpaceFarers Collective, or any of the 
Belt CityStates, where such warrants have been issued for behavior which is 
covered under applicable United Nations statutes or treaties with any of the 
foregoing parties. Got it?
Oh, absolutely, Trent assured her. What I have in mind is something thatll 
leave me looking amazingly normal and totally different than I do now. So I can 
go to parties and surprise my friends and acquaintances. I also want the best 
inskin Credit can buy.
Katrina Trudeau did not hesitate at all. That sort of thing costs a great 
deal.
Everything, said Trent, costs a great deal. And when it doesnt it ends up 
costing more.
The woman looked him up and down in much the same way that the man at the teller 
window had not an hour earlier. Youre quite the sensible boy. What do you 
need?
Palm and finger prints have to change. Retinal print has to change. Features 
need to change. The voice box can stay the same, which is good, because I like 
the way I sound. Height Trent paused.
Katrina looked at him speculatively. I can make you taller without too much 
trouble. Shorter is hard, and not very safe; it involves removing one or more of 
the vertebrae in your back and reshaping the new vertebrae so theyll ride 
together comfortablyall without damaging the spinal cord.
Pass. Im already tall enough that it gets noticed. Any taller and Id be into 
loonie territory.
Is that bad?
I want to return to Earth some day, maam.
Very well. I presume, Sieur, she said dryly, that youre interested in a 
face somewhat less gorgeous than the one youve got now.
Uhm. Not necessarily. Different, yes, butyou think Im gorgeous?
Trudeaus teeth nibbled gently at the underside of her lower lip. With that 
silly makeup taken off, you would be. You didnt hide the bone structure very 
well at all. At any rate, I have a series of holos you can look at to choose 
your new face. What about your inskin?
About six months ago Tytan Electronics shipped an inskin that accepted and 
transmitted data via either radio packet or traceset.
Trudeau looked startled for the first time. She sat up straighter. Thats not 
an inskin, Sieur Vera. Youre talking about the Tytan NN-II?
Yes.
 Sieur, thats a nerve net thats designed to sit in high memory and model 
whats happening in your brain. Its entirely experimental. Trent started to 
speak and she overrode him. Let me talk. I dont know a lot about inskins; I 
just implant the damn things. But I know what they do once they get inside your 
skull. Your brain has on the order of ten billion neurons. You can store between 
ten and fifteen quintillion bytes of information. The average inskin, even one 
with an Image coprocessor built into it, has less than ten thousand processors 
and an insignificant permanent storage capability; a few gigabytes at most. Even 
as simple as they arefive to six hundred connections internallyonce it goes 
into your skull it never comes out again.
Trent said, Never is a long time.
Today, she said patiently, it is not possible to safely remove even a simple 
inskin. The NN-IIId guess itll be twenty-five years, at least, before anyone 
knows how to take out something like this. Sieur Vera, the NN-II is essentially 
an AI nerve net. It has nearly half a million processors; it makes a discrete 
connection, somewhere inside your brain, for every one of those processors. I 
wouldnt even be connecting the damn thing, Id simply insert it into the fluid 
layer between your skull and the outer surface of your brain. The things about 
half biochip; it connects itself, grows into place over the space of about half 
a year. Youre not supposed to put Image software into it, though its possible; 
the NN-IIs designed to transparently model the way you normally think, and then 
let you off-load some of your thought processes into itin essence, speeding up 
your thought processes. Making you smarter.
Ive read about it in the trades, Selle. Thats why I want it.
Strictly speaking, Sieur Vera, it is not an inskin. During the acclimation 
period its common for even standard inskins to render the patient more 
susceptible to concussion, due to the difference in specific gravity between the 
inskin and the neural tissue its attached to. On rare occasions that can become 
a permanent weakness, Im sure you know. The point is that the NN-II has an 
insufficient track record for me to tell you if that might be one of its side 
effects, or for that matter what side effects you might reasonably expect. I do 
not know if its safe.
Me neither. I do know its specific gravity is a lot lower than that of most 
inskins, which Id guesslacking data, as we both dowould mean its safer than 
your average inskin. As far as not being an inskin, it does radio-packet 
communications, and it doesnt choke on a traceset; thats close enough. Trent 
leaned forward. Besides, the idea of walking around with a visible socket in my 
skullwell, its always seemed so, so, tacky. You know?
Tacky? Trudeaus lips curved into a reluctant half smile.
Like wearing the big floppy clown feet without the clown suit. I hate people 
who do that.
That, too, istacky?
Well, of course.
I see.
For example, once I was going to go to Mass dressed up as a clown, butdo you 
go to a temple? Or a church?
Humor danced in her eyes. On occasion.
Great. Would you like to go with me sometime?
No.
Are you sure? We could wear clown suits. Or we could not wear clown suits if
 Sieur Vera, I dont date menor women, for that matterwho are better than 
twenty-five years younger than I am. And I never, never date clients. The woman 
touched a stud on her desk, and the windows which let out onto the view of the 
Gardens went dark. If youll come in back with me, she said, standing, I have 
some holos of naked young men for you to look at.
Following her, Trent said, Couldnt we have naked young girls instead?
Walking down the dim hallway, Selle Trudeau glanced back at Trent.
Despite the short speech she had just made, Trent was almost certain she was 
thinking about it.
Katrina Trudeau said, Maybe later.

Nathan was not there when Trent returned to Nathans home at Aristillus Crater. 
It was considerably more luxurious than the bolt-hole: seven rooms beneath 
ground, at the edge of the crater, only four kilometers from the remains of the 
Aristillus mining complex.
Forty-four years prior, with the wounds of the Unification War on Earth still 
fresh, the United Nations had nationalized both the orbital construction 
facilities at Halfway and the SpaceFarers Collective colony at L-5. By way of 
retaliation the SpaceFarers Collective, eight Lunar cities with close ties to 
Belt CityStates, and all but a few of the CityStates themselves, had declared 
independence. The United Nations had been in no mood for further war, not after 
the hideous price it had paid in the subjugation of America and Japan. Though it 
had never officially recognized the governments as such, the U.N. had been in no 
real position to prevent the Belt or the SpaceFarers or Free Luna from 
proclaiming and maintaining their independence; and for nearly a decade after 
that, the CityStates had refused to send metals to either Earth itself or United 
Nations territory on Luna. In that decade, the Aristillus Mining Company had 
been the premier source of aluminum and silicon, titanium and magnesium, for 
both
U.N.-controlled Luna and Halfway. Today, with Free Luna grown to some 
twenty-five cities with over three million inhabitants, with the SpaceFarers 
Collective the undisputed carrier of all non-military interplanetary trade, and 
with the closer cooperation of the CityStates and the United Nations, the 
Aristillus Mining Companys emphasis on mining grew smaller and smaller. By the 
end of the 2060s the companys Investment branch produced better than two thirds 
of the companys revenues, and all of its profits. The mining operation ran, 
when it ran at all, at a loss, and had since the early years of the decade; and 
the craters six-kilometer-long mass driver received shipments of ore at the 
catapult head at progressively greater intervals.
There were only some two hundred people living in the entire crater, and they 
all knew one another well. Trent was not surprised that nobody attempted to call 
or visit Nathan during the three days that Trent was there and Nathan was not; 
probably everyone in the crater knew exactly when Nathan had left and when he 
was expected back.
When the approach alarm went off, three days after Trents arrival, he suited up 
and in long, gliding strides walked down the tunnel leading from the garage to 
the surface. The entrance was hidden well, nearly as well as the entrance to 
Nathans bolt-hole. Standing in the concealing shadow, Trent wondered what he 
was going to do if the approaching vehicle were, say, a group of Peaceforcers 
rather than Nathan. There was a slug-thrower which tossed explosive 
slugsdevastatingly lethal, completely illegalat the entrance to the tunnel; 
certainly Trent did not intend to use it on anyone.
At first Trent saw nothing except the long, rising line of the mass driver which 
was used to boost ore into orbit. Moving up onto the surface proper, through the 
entrance, past the slug-thrower, Trent scanned the desert by eye. A patch of 
chalky gray covered a shadow on the Lunar surface, and Trent focused on it. It 
was almost certainly Nathans crawler, a sturdy, dependable machine which Nathan 
referred to as the chameleon. The chameleon was the only one of the two 
crawlers Nathan owned which had received the necessary modifications. The 
crawler was covered in a coat of polypaint that could shade the machine into its 
environment in the most uncanny way; the most intensive satellite surveillance 
was unlikely to detect it. To protect against infrared surveillance the 
chameleon used a series of small heat sinks which had waste heat fed into them 
until they were incandescent; they were then fired away from the chameleon in 
random directions.
There was a faint crackle of sound, and then Nathans voice came clearly through 
the earphones in Trents helmet. Good news, Trent, of sorts.
In the long run, good news is an oxymoron, Nathan. Second law of 
thermodynamics. Trent headed back into the tunnel, toward the apartment and 
air.
Your Complex 8-A came, Nathan said. I brought it back with me. Youre 
supplied.
Entering the apartment, Trent removed his helmet and stripped off his pressure 
suit. He touched the pressure point at the airlock entrance, activating the 
inside speakers. Thank you, Nathan.
There was a noticeable pause before Nathan said, Youre welcome.
Trent walked into the kitchen, raising his voice as he moved away from the 
speaker. Have you eaten?
No.
Ill put something together.
Theres steak in the cold spot. Ill be there in about ten minutes. The line 
went dead.
Trent had finished cooking by the time Nathan was done rubbing down his suit.
Entering the kitchen, Nathan said, You didnt dust down your suit when you took 
it off.
Sitting on the kitchen table were two bulbs of beer and two sandwiches on wheat, 
one chicken, one steak. There was a plate of stir-fried vegetables, carrots and 
celery and bean sprouts, and two bowls. The chicken sandwich was missing a bite.
Around a mouthful of chicken sandwich Trent said, Sorry. Ill remember next 
time.
Forget it often enough, Nathan said sourly, and you wont get a chance for a 
next time. Ever seen what happens to a knee joint with a pebble worked into it? 
Wears down in a couple of months steady use. Eventually it blows. Nathan 
seated himself at the table. He seemed tired; for the first time since Trent had 
known him his beard had not been depilated recently.
Point made. I wont do it again. Trent gestured at the steak sandwich on wheat 
in front of Nathan. You know, you really shouldnt eat stuff like that. Youll 
need a heart transplant before yourehow old are you, anyhow?
Nathan said shortly, Sixty-two.
Before youre seventy, said Trent conclusively.
Nathan ignored him, tearing into the steak sandwich. When are you going to 
leave?
The stuffs in the chameleon?
Nathan glanced up from his food, nodded wordlessly.
After lunch, then.
Nathan nodded again and resumed eating. Halfway through his sandwich he put it 
down suddenly and said flatly, Trent
Yes?
Damn it, Trent, you cannot beat them.
Trent smiled broadly at Nathan. I just cant get over it. Its really amazing.
What is?
This conversation, said Trent, looking at Nathan, has just started and its 
already boring me. He held Nathans eyes a moment longer, letting the smile 
fade, and then returned to his sandwich.
I have, Nathan began deliberately, been auditing the stories about you. On 
the Boards.
So?
You were raised among the Castanaveras telepaths.
Trent said mildly, Youve been auditing the System Enquirer again.
The Peaceforcers killed them. This Vance fellow who was chasing you, theres 
some people think he was the one who gave the order to nuke them.
Trent took a long drink from his beer, wiped his mouth with his napkin. Nathan, 
Ive audited the same stories. I know all this.
And you dont want to talk about it.
Not really.
Where are you going?
Luna City. Ive got a bioscupltor there whos going to work on me.
And after that?
It depends. Trent was silent for a moment. Theres someone Id like to have 
join me, but shes not going to be able to until Ive set myself up.
Set yourself up how?
Credit, largely. I have a couple of accounts left on Earth I havent touched, 
but thats because Im not sure whether theyre still safe. For practical 
purposes they dont exist anymore. Professional boosting, said Trent, is a 
very Credit-intensive occupation.
Nathan nodded thoughtfully. What sort of numbers are you talking about? 
Computerist jobs pay pretty well up here. You could
Trent sighed. Nathan.
take a job with one of the
Nathan.
It brought the older man up short. What?
Nathan, I made over two million CU before I was eighteen.
Nathan opened his mouth once, closed it again. Are you joking?
No. Im not.
The man seemed at an absolute loss for words. Youyouwhat the hell did you 
spend it on?
Over four years, from the time I got out of the Temple Dragons, I had about 
three-quarters of a million in expenses. Getting out of the Fringe cost a lot. 
The balance Trent shrugged. Three hundred forty thousand CU went to the World 
Food Bank. My friends and I spent the rest.
Thats incredible.
Trent nodded. Its good.
but off the subject.
Trent said in exasperation, Nobody listens. Nobody ever listens. Youre 
determined to have this conversation, arent you?
The old man said carefully, Trent, I just dont understand. What are you going 
to do?
You really want to know?
I really do.
Trent leaned forward slightly. Im going to hurt them, Nathan. Im going to 
kick the sons of bitches in the balls so hard theyre never, never going to 
forget it.
And just how are you going to do that, boy?
Trent leaned back. He took a drink of his beer. Well, I havent worked that 
part out yet.
The mans voice was very gentle. You know, lad, it can be done. Retiring from 
the hero business, I mean, working up another kind of business for yourself. 
Nathans eyes were very steady on Trent. Not having to live your life on the 
run.
Well, said Trent slowly, that sounds like the voice of experience.
Nathan stared straight at Trent. His mouth worked silently before the words came 
out. Do you know who I am?
Trent said swiftly, No and dont tell me.
It brought Nathan up short. Oh?
I have some idea, said Trent more slowly. Some. You were somebody. Nobody has 
the kind of biosculpture youve put yourself through without damn good reason.
Nathan actually jerked. Howyouve been in my medical records.
Trent did not bother to deny it. I know you were a Speedfreak, Nathan. Probably 
a prominent one. If I audited records of the Long Run Ill bet I could find out 
which one. Someday, Nathan, there is a good chance Ill find myself in PKF 
hands, getting my brain drained. Trent said the words one at a time, putting 
emphasis on them. Nathan, I do not need to know any more about you than I do, 
and I do not want to.
The muscles in Nathans jaws were standing out. I want, he said deliberately, 
to tell you a story.
I already know how it ends, said Trent.
Nathan glared at him. Once, said Nathan, his steady glare not wavering at all, 
there was a young man named something-or-other. Growing up, this young man was 
fascinated by elegant machinery. He went to space in his twenties, was one of 
the few thousands ever adopted into the SpaceFarers Collective after it 
declared its independence. He was one of the very, very few who ever left it. He 
returned to Earth in 2048, and became a part of the burgeoning Speedfreak 
culture. He married in 2060, to another Speedfreak. By 2063 he was prominent 
among them. When the Unification Council tried to legislate the Speedfreaks out 
of existence, they rebelled. A quiet sort of rebellion; they were going to take 
their hovercars on the Long Run, a complete circuit of the globe, in a caravan 
that numbered more than a million vehicles. They did this against the direct 
orders of the Unification Council.
Nathan smiled too precisely. It was an amazing smile that went absolutely 
nowhere near the glare in his eyes. When the hovercars were refueling in the 
mid-Atlantic a storm arose. They never proved it, said the man whose name was 
Nathan Dark Clouds, but to this day I and many others believe that the storm 
that destroyed the Speed Enthusiasts Organization was engineered by the 
Trinity. Those who survived that storm were rounded up by the PKF, and some were 
executed. My wife was executed, Trent, masered to death; the PKF recorded the 
executions, leaked them to the Boards. The ones who were not executed were 
sent into Public Labor for the rest of their lives. I wasnot one of the ones 
who would have been sent into Public Labor, Trent. He was silent for a long 
moment. You can do it, Trent. Live. Here, in peace.
But, said Trent awkwardly, its just
With a sound like a rifle shot Nathan slapped a hand down on the tabletop. You 
ran all the way from Earth. When does it become time to stop?
After Ive won a round would be good. That would be a good time.
Id say youve won a pretty big round, Trent. Youre alive and the PKF doesnt 
know it. You may never again get another chance like this, not ever.
Nathan Trents voice trailed off. A troubled expression crossed his features 
like a cloud. He began again, NathanI have a lot of anger. More than I like to 
think about sometimes. Andsix years in the Fringe. And before that, yes, they 
killed absolutely everybody I grew up with. Even now Trent did not seriously 
consider mentioning either David or Denice. I tell people Im a pacifist and 
its partly true. Killing other peopleits the last option, the very very last 
option. Ive never had to use it. Ive come close but Ive never had to. But 
His voice halted, resumed again more slowly. Ive said sometimes, to some 
people, that I dont believe in hurting others if you can avoid it. And thats a 
lie. He looked up, met the older mans dark gaze. Nathan, I want to hurt the 
Peaceforcers worse than I can say. I want to hurt them so theyll never, never 
forget it. Every day, every minute of every day, Im sick in my soul from 
wanting to hurt them.
Theyre not a person, lad. You cant ever hurt them the way theyve hurt you.
Trent became aware that the palms of his hands were damp. I can try. Besides, I 
have one great advantage.
What anger there had been in Nathan Dark Clouds spare, craggy features had 
vanished almost entirely, as though a switch had been thrown. He sat motionless 
across the table, studying Trent carefully, saying nothing.
Trent tried to smile at the man. He thought he almost carried it off. Im alive 
and the PKF doesnt know it. I may never get another chance like this.
The old man said very quietly, People have been trying for a long time, Trent.
Actually, said Trent, I have two advantages. I was raised by Peaceforcers. 
Everyone in Project Superman was. I know them. I know the PKF, Nathan.
Other people, said Nathan Dark Clouds, have known the Peaceforcers too. And 
it didnt do them a damn bit of good.
Trent said, I know them inside and out, I know how they think, I know how they 
plan, I know how they work.
Nathan shook his head ever so slightly; for the first time since Trent had known 
him he seemed truly old. Not even looking at Trent, Nathan said, Theyll kill 
you, lad. As though Trent were not even there, he said again, Theyll kill 
you.
Trent said softly, I know them in my blood.




3-
 ^  
Federal Express.
The webdancer sitting in front of the DataWatch systerm flicked open his eyes, 
glanced at Trent quickly, held up a hand in a one moment gesture, and went 
back Inside.
It was after 3:00 a.m. Standing in the lobby of the Luna City branch of the 
Lunar DataWatch, wearing a stolen blue Federal Express softsuit and carrying a 
package in a vacuum bag, Trent waited patiently. He had seen almost nobody on 
his way up to the DataWatch offices.
Trent took his softsuits gloves off, hung them at his belt, and looked around 
while he waited. The lobby was sparsely decorated: pale gray carpeting, a couple 
of long, low couches with video tablets chained to the arms of the couches. The 
office was located on A2, in the complex which held both Luna City Hall and most 
of the U.N. civil offices. It was at the opposite end of the city from the 
all-night bars and dance clubs and restaurants.
The webdancer sitting behind the desk at the entrance to the lobby ignored Trent 
for two solid minutes before finally abandoning the Crystal Wind. Sorry about 
that, the webdancer said at last, eyes opening fully. He was a short pudgy man 
on the verge of obesity; his smile was anxious and his traceset was crooked, the 
trode at his left temple barely making contact with his skin. Im the only 
webdancer on duty in the whole damn city right now, and I just barely stay on 
top of things. What do you have there?
Package for Colonel Despardin. Is he in?
The webdancer sighed loudly. Look, I just said I was the only one on duty right 
now. If
You said you were the only webdancer on duty, Trent said mildly. You mean 
youre the only person in the whole building?
Yes.
Trent chuckled, and the webdancer looked puzzled.
Trent said, Then I guess you can have this. He unzipped the vacuum bag and 
withdrew the squirt gun. He shot the man in the face once, put the squirt gun 
back in the bag, and walked around the desk without hurry while the webdancer 
toppled forward slowly, gracefully, onto the huge control panel in front of the 
systerm. Trent pulled the traceset from the mans head and gave him a gentle 
push to aid him on his way, out of the seat and onto the floor, kicked the chair 
out of the way and stood over the keyboard. He removed his handheld from the 
vacuum bag, jacked it into the systerm and donned the traceset.
There were a pair of ten-terabyte infochips in the handheld, one to record the 
session as it went down, another for copying out databases as they were 
uncovered.
Johnny Johnny blossomed slowly around Trent. Trents eyesight faded even before 
he closed his eyes, and his hearing and sense of smell; finally he lost all 
contact with his body and went Inside, to the waiting Crystal Wind.
 the file format was standard, no different from that used by the DataWatch on 
Earth. Johnny Johnny pulled the systerms autohelp files and copied them off 
into the handheld without examining them. He scanned through the systerms 
Emergency Notices; there were five in the queue, and a sixth was added as Johnny 
Johnny watched. Notices were rated Standard, Important, Very Important, and 
Urgent; the first five in the queue were Standard, and only the sixth was rated 
Important. There was a log of all Emergency Notices routed through that systerm 
in the last five years; Johnny Johnny glanced through it briefly, found amazing 
numbers. There were 758,000 residents of Luna City, with an average of 445 
transactions per user per day; an average of 340 million transactions per day. 
In the twenty-one years that had passed since DataWatchs establishment of its 
control of the infant Lunar InfoNet, DataWatch had monitored over two trillion 
transactions in Luna City alone.
In twenty-one years no Player had ever danced successfully in the U.N. Luna 
InfoNet.
Johnny Johnny hesitated a moment, then copied the data out into the handheld for 
later analysis, and descended deeper into the systerm.
Johnny Johnny knew within instants that the systerm was not a working part of 
the Key transputers; its entire function was to track and analyze those Luna 
City InfoNet transactions which the LINK transputers, at the massive Farside 
DataWatch facility, tagged as anomalous. The Lunar Information Network was 
incredibly slow by Earth standards. Before a file could be copied across 
public-access lasercable it was necessary for users to upload a description of 
the file to the LINK transputers at Farside, the ID code of the user sending the 
file, and the ID code of the user receiving it. By law the file description sent 
to the LINK transputers could be generated by one of only three approved 
algorithms; uploading a manually created description was a crime.
Before a user could log onto a public Board the same routine was required. As a 
result there was a perceptible delay at each step; every transaction had to wait 
for a description file to be generated, for the file to be transmitted to the 
Key transputers, for the LINK to examine the description file, approve or deny 
the transaction, and then send that approval or denial back to the user 
requesting access to resources.
Only DataWatch users had unfettered access to the InfoNet; they were provided 
access codes which identified them as preapproved users of all resources in the 
U.N. Lunar InfoNet. The preapproved access codes were changed every hour on the 
hour; a checksum was webcast to every node in the InfoNet, and the keys to the 
checksum were webcast to the PKF DataWatch systerms. Without the keys the 
checksum was completely meaningless, and it was impossible to backtrack the keys 
from the checksum.
Disgusting, thought Johnny Johnny clearly. Protected by the PKF authorizations 
this systerm possessed, he danced out into the Crystal Wind.

Halfway around the world at the Farside DataWatch was a program called Watchdog; 
a program that hung very near the fine line that separated the illegal, 
self-aware AIs from the huge collection of expert systems which all of human 
space depended upon.
Halfway around the world, Watchdog roused itself and went out into the Lunar 
InfoNet.
InfoNet lasercable transmissions in Luna City had jumped by a twentieth of one 
percent; and Watchdog was not receiving an appropriate increase in description 
files.
Something was badly wrong.

Johnny Johnny nickered through Board after Board, filtering and editing and 
channeling the data which his biological component received, spooling the 
balance of the data into the handheld. It was all so appallingly slow; most of 
the hardware in the Lunar InfoNet was old by comparison with Earth-based 
computer systems, and even the relatively few state-of-the-art systems were 
hampered by the mandatory checks placed on every transaction; at times, Johnny 
Johnny was shocked to learn, the delays stretched so long that humans became 
aware of them.
He cataloged the resources available to him. There was logic available, unused, 
in the comsats which circled Luna, and Johnny Johnny sent phages up through the 
microwave relays of the Luna City telexchange to find and take what resources 
they could. The Luna City telexchange was not, properly speaking, a part of the 
InfoNet, but it was intimately connected in many ways; Johnny Johnny was 
surprised to discover that the telexchange was used by Free Luna territories and 
United Nations territories alikenot for the territories to speak with one 
another, but for communications with the comsats. Johnny Johnny attached over 
two hundred of the Free Luna data lines and spooled the conversations and data 
being transmitted across them into the handheld.
One of the phages called down to Johnny Johnny; it had acquired a comsat. Johnny 
Johnny considered and then leaped 
 up.
From the safety of the comsat Johnny Johnny looked down upon Luna, upon its 
twenty-eight million United Nations citizens, the three and a half million 
residents of Free Luna. Video coursed through him, ten thousand conversations, 
every byte of the data being sent from Boards and users inside Luna City to 
Boards and users elsewhere on the planet.
There was a curious emptiness to it all.
Johnny Johnny paused, dissatisfied, tempted to disengage and split into his 
component parts but displeased with his lack of useful information about the 
LINK. The public face of the LINK transputers, the protocols whereby all 
transactions were marked and encrypted, was both unbreakable and perfectly 
clear. But after the risk of hijacking an actual DataWatch systerm, it galled 
Johnny Johnny to find that he knew no more about the LINK itself than he had 
known when he began. Every piece of knowledge he had of the thing was from 
observation of what it did; Johnny Johnny lacked completely any feel for what it 
was.
The swift question was so lacking in emotion it seemed polite.
I AM WATCHDOG. WHO ARE YOU? ARE YOU A PLAYER?
It did not wait for an answer.
In the instant of the questions asking, without any warning at all, Johnny 
Johnny felt himself ripped free of the comsat he had stolen. With astonishing 
speed he found himself tumbling down into Realtime, as vast sections of the 
Crystal Wind were denied him, closed off one by one. He lost the comsat first 
and the Lunar telexchange in the next moment, as the monstrous, dispassionate 
master of the LINK called Watchdog closed in on him. Johnny Johnny fought back 
in near panic, in all the fashions he knew, generated ghosts and left them 
behind to distract Watchdog, scrambled memory in the processors he had claimed 
before releasing them. Johnny Johnny could feel the moves surprise Watchdog, 
slow it slightly; in all its existence it had never encountered a Player with 
the sorts of resources which any Player had in Earths InfoNet.
It was the merest instants respite, and without consulting his biological 
componentthere was simply no timeJohnny Johnny seized upon it, fled down into 
Realtime only slightly more quickly than Watchdog could sort through the myriad 
of false trails he left behind.
Trent slammed down into Realtime with physical impact.
His eyes opened onto the information-sterile lobby. In a daze, Trent looked 
slowly around the room, then down at the form of the unconscious PKF webdancer 
at his feet.
A long moment passed. There was a loud ringing sound in Trents ears.
Boss? The voice came from the handhelds speaker, not through the traceset 
which Trent still wore.
Yeah?
You okay?
Trent shook himself slightly. Never in his life had he come down out of the 
Crystal Wind so violently. His hands were shaking. I think so. What happened!
I dont know. Johnny Johnny was silent a beat. This was a bad idea. Boss, 
give them the Luna InfoNet, lets run away and play somewhere else. I want out 
of here. I dont want to dance on Luna, I dont want to be on this planet. That 
thing scares me.
Me too, Johnny Johnny. Me too. Running sounds like a  good idea. It seemed to 
Trent that his thoughts were moving very slowly indeed. Johnny? Any alarms out 
there referencing this location? Did it track us this far?
No alarms in the systerm, Boss. Im not going into the InfoNet to find out 
about other locations.
Okay. Trent grinned suddenly, shakily. How many transactions did we go 
through?
Checkingthirteen thousand, seven hundred and nineteen.
Trent unjacked his handheld.
He typed a message on the systerm, the letters glowing bright red on blue:
Score, Luna City; 2048-2069:
DataWatch: Two trillion and change.
Players: 13,719.
He sealed up his handheld and squirt gun in the vacuum bag and left, walking 
quickly through the empty corridors.

Newsdancer Terry Shawmac once wrote that when you get off Earth the best way to 
guess a strangers politics is by his watch. There is a degree of truth to this; 
in United Nations territories the clock is usually set to Capitol City time. 
Free Luna, Mars, and most but not all of the Belt CityStates run on Greenwich 
mean time. The SpaceFarers, bound to no planet, live by a ten-hour metric day, 
which, while admittedly beginning and ending at the same moment as those days 
which run under twenty-four-hour Greenwich mean time, nonetheless adds yet 
another element of confusion to the entire subject; when a SpaceFarer tells you 
he will meet you at five oclock, he means nooncenterday, as SpaceFarers like 
to say.
The problem of varying standards of time is worst in Luna City itself. It is the 
oldest city on the Moon, and far and away the largest. Despite being in United 
Nations territory it receives both tourists and businessmen from those Belt 
CityStates which have not made the mistake of sponsoring cities in Free Luna. On 
top of this, the SpaceFarer presence is large: outside of Navajo Spaceport on 
Earth, at any given time Luna City sports the largest number of SpaceFarers to 
be found in one spot on any planetary surface in the System.
It is, despite the claims of trade centers in Free Luna territory, the source of 
over a third of all trade goods which leave the Moon. It possesses the largest 
dome and the longest catapultby virtue of its length the Luna City catapult is 
the only catapult on Luna capable of handling passengers. At the launch head its 
acceleration is under four gees, and it drops to less than three gees by the 
time the capsule has reached the far end of the catapult.
These are facts.
Indisputable facts.
Clean.
Simple.
They tell you nothing about the city.
Luna City, Terry Shawmac wrote, has a soul.
It is unlike any city on Earth. It is unlike any city I have visited off Earth. 
In terms of size and traffic the only place I have ever visited off Earth which 
it resembles at all is Halfway. But the differences with Halfway outweigh the 
resemblances; Halfway is the ultimate company town. Luna City has no 
relationship with any business that approaches the importance of the 
relationship between Tytan Manufacturing and Halfway. And Halfway is 
aggressively proud of being a city in free-fall; it lacks any consistent local 
vertical, and most downsiders are never truly comfortable there.
Luna City, through some happy accident, ended up a fusion of the best elements 
of downside cities and all the other off-Earth communities. It would have made 
more sense if Luna City were one of the newer off-Earth communities, but thats 
not the case. In fact, Luna City is the oldest city in existence off of Earth 
itself. It was never planned, and later attempts at planned Lunar or CityState 
communities have never worked as well.
It just happened.
Some of it is accidental. The Flight Caverns are a good example. That 
muscle-powered flight was possible in a pressurized Lunar cavern has been known 
for over a century; as a plaque inside the Flight Caverns tells you, a futurist 
named Heinlein described it in 1957, the same year that the first artificial 
satellite was launched. But it was entirely accidental that appropriate caverns 
actually existed less than five kilometers from the original center of Luna 
City. When the original dome was constructed, back in the early 20s, there was 
no discussion as to site: they placed it smack on top of what are now called the 
Flight Caverns, and opened the Hotel Copernicus on top of that.
Look down on Luna City from above, in sunlight, and you will see what is easily 
the loveliest sight on Lunas surface, and that is another accident. In the 
early 20s there was no such thing as practical fusion power; the fields of 
solar power panels which surround Luna City, which glitter in the sun like the 
petals of a flower, were obsolete within four years of the time their 
construction was completed.
Much of Luna Citys beauty is planned.
The impression many downsiders have of cities on Luna (in Luna, as loonies 
would like it) is that of artificeof airplants, of the recycling of water and 
other resources, of an existence dependent on machines. So far as it goes it is 
an accurate picture; survival in Luna City does depend on machines, and its 
inhabitants never forget it.
But I have never walked through any downside city, including some in tropical 
climates, with so many growing plants. Plants in every corridor, in every open 
area. Shrubs, potted plants, flowersI remember very clearly the amazement and 
delight I felt the first time I entered one of the long cross-town 
corridorsthis was my first day in Luna Cityand saw that it was covered with 
grass as far as I could see.
There are cities on Earth which are known for being pleasant to walk through. 
Most of Luna City is beneath ground, and it stretches for kilometer after 
kilometer, through eleven levels beneath the surface of Luna and three above. I 
spent six months of my life walking through the corridors of Luna City, and I 
saw perhaps half of them. Because of the gravity, walking is not wearying; even 
downsiders in poor health can literally spend half a day sightseeing without 
tempting exhaustion.
There are eight or nine twenty-four-hour restaurantsten-hour restaurants, as 
SpaceFarers would have itand four times as many bars. Unification propaganda to 
the contrary, there is no violent crime to speak of, and most of what crime 
truly exists is directed either at evading Unification taxes, or at conducting 
commerce with Free Luna. The latter, though technically illegal, is so 
widespread that even the large and constantly growing contingents of 
Peaceforcers have not been able to put a dent in it.
I said Luna City has a soul. I was speaking metaphorically, of course. No 
creation of plastisteel and ferrocrete can really have a soul.
But Luna City does have the Gardens.

In October, on a great redwood platform reaching sixty meters above the Lunar 
Gardens, Trent dined with a SpaceFarer named Felix KHin. Eerie, impossibly thin 
green-leafed and evergreen trees reached up from the Gardens, grew around the 
platform on all sides so that the diners could see nothing but the trees. They 
were only ten meters beneath the very top of the dome, and the scent of flowers 
and growing things permeated the air around them. It was raining over the 
Gardens, a fine gray mist that fell away from the interior surface of dome, 
falling gently and implacably throughout dinner. Electrostatic fields projected 
above the tables and walkways kept perhaps half of the surface of the redwood 
platform dry.
There was a gentle breeze so cool it was almost crisp. Trent did not know where 
it came from.
It was completely unlike any place Trent had ever seen in his life. The closest 
analogy which occurred to him came from holos he had played against the wall in 
his apartment on Flushing Street, forested areas in the northwest United States 
and Canada. It was only a vague resemblance; the Gardens was itself, nothing 
else.
It was the second time Trent and KHin had attempted to meet; the first time, 
the SpaceFarer had shown up for their meeting on SpaceFarer time, and Trent had 
arrived on Unification time. Now, for their second meeting, it was two oclock 
in the morning by Capitol City time, the clock that U.N. Luna and Halfway ran 
on. Despite that it was fairly busy in the most expensive restaurant on Luna; 
Trent and KHin were only two of about thirty diners. Like most of space, Luna 
City was slowly evolving away from the Earth cycle of day and night.
Over dinner Trent and KHin discussed price of passage to Mars, and then to 
Ceres, with a valid passport for Trent and one unidentified female, for the 
Association of Belt CityStates. KHin, a huge black man who reminded Trent of 
Reverend Andy without the muscles, was one of the most powerful SpaceFarer 
brokers in Luna City. He was explaining that what Sieur Vera wanted was 
impossible, and if it was not impossiblenot that KHin was conceding this for 
an instantit certainly could not be done for the ridiculous sum Sieur Vera was 
suggesting.
Trent smiled at the man. It gets worse.
KHin looked honestly amazed. What? You mean besides the fact that youre 
looking for a passport for a Unification citizen whose name you cant give me, 
besides the fact that you cant tell me when or where the damn ship is supposed 
to land to pick the two of you up, besides the fact that nobody Ive been in 
touch with on Earth or off has ever fucking heard of a Thomas Vera, besides all 
that theres more?
There may be  problems  with the Unification as a result of this passage. The 
SpaceFarers Collective needs to be aware of this.
KHin looked delighted. Really? War maybe?
Trent smiled at the man. Theres very little chance of war arising between the 
Unification and the SpaceFarers Collective over this. Simulations Ive run put 
it at less than one in five.
KHin started to laugh and then stopped abruptly. He sat under Trents steady 
gaze, simply looking at Trent. In a tone of voice entirely different from 
anything Trent had heard from him up to that moment, he said, Oh, shit. Youre 
serious.
As I say, its unlikely. Im a thief, Felix, and Im going to boost something 
from the Peace Keeping Force. Ive narrowed it down to three targets. Only one 
of those three targets presents any serious possibility that its loss will cause 
the Unification to go to war.
KHin said slowly, Its possible. Theres members of the Collectives Board of 
Directors who wouldnt mind seeing someone give the PKF the boot. Thomas, Ill 
tell you what Ill do. Im going to set a base price of sixty thousand hard CU. 
Thats SpaceFarer CU, silver, not that Chinese crap. Thats covering pickup at a 
convenient location such as the Luna City landpads. You guarantee no hassles 
from PKF or Space Force with a bond thats forfeited in case of serious trouble 
caused by you. In return, with at least two weeks notice, we guarantee prompt 
pickup, a fast ship, two passports. Youll probably need to meet with a 
representative of the Collectives Board of Directors at some point before the 
boost goes, to describe in a general way the boost youre planning, the upside 
and the downside for the Collective.
Trent said, Base price?
KHin shrugged. It gets dangerous, the price goes up.
Trent nodded. All right. In general, that sounds good. Were going to need to 
work out some of the procedural details, but Trent broke off as the lone human 
waiter on duty approached the table.
He addressed Trent.  Sieur Vera?
Trent looked up. Yes?
You have a call, sir.
Trent glanced at KHin. Hang in there. Ill be right back.
KHin leaned back in the delicate, impossibly thin chair. Ill wait. A while.
Trent rose, walked along the path away from their table, with railings to keep 
the customers from falling to their probable deaths below, and into the 
restaurant proper. The waiter led Trent to a small cubicle near the restrooms; 
there was a systerm inside, the holofield flashing the words call waiting at 
Trent.
Once the waiter had left Trent unhooked his handheld from his belt, jacked it 
into the systerm. Johnny Johnny?
Yes, Boss?
Cut off the systerm microphone. Alter my voice print as it goes out.
Done, Boss.
Trent touched the accept stud.
Candy Blains image formed in the field. He glared at Trent. Ive been trying 
to get a hold of you for more than an hour.
So?
Nathans been shot.
What?
Nathans been shot. A Peaceforcer squad dropped from orbit on his partitions 
out at Aristillus. He had some warning, apparently, was in his p-suit when they 
blew the place down to death pressure.
Is he alive?
Yes. Or was, said Blain, when last I heard. He had some heavy ammo, God knows 
what he was doing with it; damaged the semiballistic the Peaceforcers came down 
in, blew the tracks off a crawler that tried to follow his chameleon into the 
desert.
The bolt-hole, said Trent stupidly.
Yeah. Im one of the best goddamn friends he has on this planet, Blain said 
bitterly, and I dont know where his bolt-hole is.
Trent said, I do.
Tell me about it.
How badly was he hurt? Exactly.
Blain looked weary. I dont know. Rumor at Aristillus says the PKF reported at 
least three lasers got a piece of him. He was losing air when he reached the 
chameleon.
Trent was not certain he wanted to hear the answer. Why?
Blains glower flared again. Harboring a fugitiveThomas. 
How long ago?
Three, three and a half hours ago.
Trent took a deep breath. He was surprised at how shaky he felt. All right. 
Thanks, Candy. Im on it.
Sure. The word was openly skeptical. One last question.
Trent looked away from the cameras, at the image floating in the field. What?
Are you Trent?
Trent cut the connection and unhooked his handheld. He walked back to Felix 
KHin without hurrying. Felix.
Trents expression must have alerted the man; he sat up very straight. What is 
it?
The words gone up on a friend. I need a semiballistic hopper to Cassini, and a 
crawler from there.
KHin grinned broadly. The semis going to cost you, my friend. Youre looking 
at
With his handheld Trent reached across the table and swept KHins meal off the 
tabletop, knocked it ten meters out into the open air. KHin stared at Trent in 
shock; even among SpaceFarers, for whom the starvation of huge portions of 
Earths population was only another item on the news Boards, wasting food was 
very close to being one of the worst crimes a man could be guilty of.
Felix, dont fuck with me. Ill pay what its worth. I need it. Right now.
KHins grin came back slowly; then, if anything, it got broader. Its done.

From Luna City at Copernicus Trent took an SB to Cassini Crater, slightly north 
and east of Aristillus, north and slightly west of Nathans bolt-hole, in the 
foothills of the Caucasus Mountains.
There was a crawler, modified to cover its tracks, waiting for him at Cassini; 
that crater, putatively a part of the United Nations, was practically owned by 
the Syndic, and the Peaceforcers went in only in force, if at all.
From Cassini, Trent headed south.
Nathan was not at the bolt-hole.
Trent backtracked, toward Aristillus. He drove through darkness for nearly half 
an hour, across the regolith, growing ever more cautious as he ventured farther 
away from the bolt-hole. He was on the verge of turning back when he finally 
found the chameleon, the tracks still churning, jammed nose-first against the 
side of a small hill. A rock slide had come down to cover the front of the 
vehicle; it took Trent over an hour to dig through the rubble until he managed 
to reach the airlock. Cycling through the airlock, Trent found Nathan, in his 
pressure suit, sitting on the long bench seat before the control panel, slumped 
face-first on the controls. The pressure suit was patterned with laser tracks.
Trent could tell by the limp feel of his own pressure suit that the interior of 
the crawler was pressurized. Very gently, Trent pulled Nathans still form up 
from the control panel, killed the engine, and removed his own helmet and then 
Nathans. When the engines died it was abruptly very quiet inside the crawler. 
There was blood all over the inside of the helmet, all over Nathans face. 
Nathans head lolled freely on the seats headrest.
A distant sigh was all the sign Nathan gave that he was even alive. The entire 
front of Nathans pressure suit had been blackened by a maser burst. At the 
abdomen the reinforcing rings had melted.
Trent
The word was the merest ghost. Im here. Trent did not even consider trying to 
remove Nathans pressure suit; it was probably all that was holding him 
together.
Nathans eyes flickered open, stared sightlessly up at Trent, up toward the 
ceiling of the chameleon. first-aid kit  stimtabs Trent debated with 
himself briefly and lost. He took both a stimtab and a painkiller from the kit, 
injected the painkiller, waited ten seconds and broke the stimtab under Nathans 
nose. The response was almost immediate; Nathans eyes flickered, focused on 
Trent.
Thanks, Nathan whispered hoarsely. Undignified damn way to go, nose-down on 
the control board.
Trent could think of absolutely nothing to say.
Nathan seemed to gather his energy. Howd you find me?
SB to Cassini; I rode a crawler from there.
If I dont get to a medbot, Nathan wheezed, Im going to die. They shot me 
with a maser, Trent, it burned
Nathan  I  I cant get you to a medbot in time. Id have had to bring the SB 
down right at the bolt-hole. I didnt do that, Nathan.
Oh. Nathan grinned weakly. That was a mistake. Id have had to give the 
pilot the coordinates for your bolt-hole, Nathan. I thought you needed a hiding 
place.
Nathans voice faded. Second mistake. His eyes closed. Trent?
Yes?
Do you know Catholic last rites?
No.
Trent?
Yes?
Can you take me to the bolt-hole, Trent?
I cant take you to my crawler, Nathan. I heard they shot you and I brought a 
spare p-suit with me, butif I try taking you out of your suit itll kill you.
Nathan snorted, coughed blood. No kidding. He laughed shakily, blood dripping 
off his chin, to the scorched surface of his p-suit. This thing His voice was 
cut off by another round of coughing. When he resumed his voice was noticeably 
weaker. move at all?
The chameleon? Trent looked over the control panel for the first time. I 
dont know. Theres not much fuel left.
Auxiliary tanks are on the  rack. Outside, in back, Nathan whispered. Change 
them.
All right. I will.
Take me home.
Ill do my best.
It took most of ten minutes before Trent had the fuel tanks changed over; he had 
never attempted to change a crawlers fuel tanks before, and he botched the 
first connection and sprayed the fuel at high pressure over the entire rear of 
the crawler. The second and third tanks he got on correctly. He cycled back 
through the airlock and brought the tanks on line. The fuel gauge flickered back 
to full; Trent backed the vehicle up, drove past the crawler he had come in, and 
headed north.
He sat in the middle of the long bench seat, helping Nathan keep upright. He 
considered letting the man lie down on the seat, but there was blood in his 
lungs. Trent could hear it every time Nathan gathered the necessary energy to 
speak, a bubbling sound in his voice, and he was afraid that if Nathan lay down 
he might drown in his own blood.
Nathan whispered, How much longer?
It took me half an hour to get here. Call it twenty-five minutes before we 
reach the bolt-hole.
God, it hurts. Nathans eyes were losing focus as the crawler rolled across 
the surface of the Moon. Do you know what it felt like when the maser beam hit 
me? I wanted to die just so the pain would stop.
Nathan, you need to conserve your strength. Trent looked at the pained 
expression on the mans face, and said gently, When we get to the bolt-hole I 
can call Cassini, have them send a hopper. Trent was certain that the 
semiballistic would not get there in time. Just be quiet and try to relax.
Trent could not tell if Nathan believed him or not; the man did not try to speak 
again for several minutes.
There was silence then but for the sound of Nathans wheezing.
The crawler rolled across the Lunar surface.
Trent?
Yes?
Who were they after? You, or me?
Trent said nothing.
At length Nathan said, It was you. They were after you.
Probably.
I guess it  doesnt matter.
I cant see how, Nathan.
I think Im going to die, Trent.
Everybody does, Nathan.
Soon.
Trent said simply, I think you are.
Well, shit. Nathans breathing rattled hollowly in his throat. Trent  you 
cant fight them. This is what happens when you try to fight them.
Trent was intensely aware of how alone they were, of the man dying next to him.
How much longer till were home?
Twenty minutes, Nathan.
Oh. After a moment Nathan said simply, I cant wait that long.

Trent left Nathans body inside the bolt-hole, and walked through the bolt-hole, 
wiping every surface he could conceivably have touched during his stay.
And then brought the bolt-hole down with two kilos of blasting plastic.
It was not a dramatic thing; watching the time-delayed explosion from the safety 
of the crawler, all Trent saw was a gentle sag as the edge of the crater 
buckled, sank, and settled in.
He had thought about leaving a stone, cutting an inscription with his laser, but 
he could find no true need for such a thing within himself.
And Nathan, whoever he had once been, was dead.




4-
 ^  
It was night, and Earth was full. The blue Earthlight flooded down across the 
Lunar plains, turned the world eerie.
He sat in the blue dimness, in Nathan Dark Clouds un-moving chameleon, 
overlooking Cassini crater. Wearing his pressure suit except for the helmet; 
that was on the seat at his side.
Watching cartoons.
They were flat cartoons from a time before the Unification, made sometime around 
the second World War. They were part of the library Trent kept in his handheld 
for just such circumstances.
The flat plane of the cartoon was located exactly midway through the depth of 
the holofield. With a perfect lack of expression Trent watched some of the 
greatest art to come out of the preceding centuryDuck Dodgers in the 24th-1/2th 
Century, followed by two Roadrunner cartoons, followed by Bugs and Daffy and 
Elmer Fudd.
Thinking.
He remembered the moments in the Detention Center, the feeling of complete 
correctness which had come over him in the instant before he had brought down 
the PKF Boards.
So shoot me! screams Daffy at Elmer Fudd.
Elmer does.
The paths split away before Trent with a clarity unlike anything he had ever 
known before. One path, the one he had been planning forhoping fortook him 
back to Earth within a year or two, to a small house on an island somewhere in 
the South Seas.
Daffy is staring at Bugs Bunny, still smoking slightly from Elmer Fudds shotgun 
blast. Elmer stands patiently, watching the two argue. Daffy says, Lets run 
through that again.
Bugs shrugs. Okay. Addressing Elmer in a bored voice: Would you like to shoot 
me now or wait until you get home?
Daffy, in the same bored voice: Shoot him now, shoot him now.
Bugs Bunny: You keep out of this, he doesnt have to shoot you now.
Daffy Duck: Ha!
And then there was the other path, the one that led to direct conflict with the 
PKFand to death, or capture, or legend.
Thats it! Hold it right there. Daffy looks craftily toward the audience, 
toward Trent. Pronoun trouble. He looks back at Bugs. Its not, He doesnt 
have to shoot you now, its He doesnt have to shoot me now. Well, I say he 
does have to shoot me now!
Elmer does.
Trent found his lips turning ever so slightly upward; he was not entirely sure 
why. Turn it off, Johnny.
The image vanished instantly. Okay, Boss. What now?
Trent turned the engine back on, sat up as the crawler jerked forward, down the 
long slope of the crater wall. They keep pushing, Johnny.
I know, Boss.
Every time Im ready to let it go they push again. Trent stared forward. Im 
standing here with my back to the wall and they  keep  pushing.
Johnny Johnny said nothing in reply.
Except for Denice, and maybe David, they killed everyone I grew up with.
His Images voice said, very softly indeed, I know, Boss.
And now Nathan. Im tempted to get angry.
About time!
But Im not going to. Trent said again, very softly, I am not going to.
There was an audible sigh from the handheld. Boss, Im never going to 
understand you.
Do you know what their greatest weakness is?
The PKF? Johnny Johnny thought about it in silence for several minutes as the 
crawler rolled forward. Finally he said, Theyre not as smart as we are?
No, Johnny. Most of them arent, but some of them are. Vance may be smarter.
Then I dont know, Boss.
They have no sense of humor at all, Johnny Johnny.
No sense of humor?
None.
Johnny Johnnys voice held plain exasperation. But what are you going to do, 
Boss?
Trent was silent for a very long time. Finally he whispered, Humiliate them.
Johnny Johnny said, Oh?
Hurt them.
Johnny Johnny said, Oh.
Alone with his Image in the darkness of the crawler, Trent did smile then, a 
terrible smile without any amusement at all.
His eyes were focused on something very far away.
I am, he said, going to bring the fuckers down.




5-
 ^  
He brought the semiballistic down at the edge of Bessel Crater, in Free Luna.
Briefcase in hand, Trent walked out across the pale Lunar soil to where the 
citys airlocks awaited him.
There was a woman, about thirty, standing immediately inside the inner airlock 
door, in a small corridor which led to a pair of maglevs for the descent beneath 
the surface. She was dressed in some sort of scarlet paramilitary fatigues, with 
a Series IV Excalibur energy rifle slung over her back and a hand maser slung in 
a quick-draw holster just over her hipbone.
Trent unclasped the helmet to his p-suit.
Without any change of expression at all, the woman said, Welcome to Free Luna.
Thank you.
In the past, she said, weve shot down unannounced visitors before they could 
land.
Trent said, Im here to see the mayor.
The woman shook her head. This time she smiled. No, youre not.
Im not?
No.
What am I doing here, then?
Leaving. Trent had not noticed her hand moving; it was now resting on the butt 
of the maser. You werent invited, you didnt advise us you were coming, and 
youre not wanted.
Im sorry about that, said Trent, but I was in a hurry. I needed to go 
dancing, and you cant do that in the Unification InfoNet. Im told things are a 
bit looser in the Free Luna InfoNet?
The woman shrugged. Could be. Im not a webdancer, just a soldier. Youre not 
welcome, kid.
Trent sighed, looking at the floor, trying to think while standing there with 
his helmet in his hand. The floor had not been swept or mopped recently; Lunar 
dust had been tracked over it. Trent looked back up at the woman. Whats your 
name?
Domino. Im the vice-mayor of Bessel City Free Luna.
Trent blinked. No kidding?
No kidding.
Dominos a neat name.
Thank you.
I feel like we havent been introduced, said Trent.
We havent been, Domino said agreeably. We dont know you. Nobodys 
introduced us, and Bessel Free Luna doesnt take in waifs.
My name is Trent.
Thats nice. Pleased to Domino stopped speaking. Really?
Trent nodded. I promise.
He could see that the woman believed him instantly. Why are you here?
Well, Im close to being broke, said Trent. I have things I need to do, 
expensive things, and frankly Id like to do it with your Credit.
Whats that to us?
Vice-Mayor Domino?
Yes?
Im really here to see the mayor.
Domino raised her voice. Quentin!
A male voice came from somewhere above their heads in the small corridor. Bring 
him in.
Dominos hand left the butt of the hand maser. She took a step forward and held 
her hand out to Trent. Welcome to Free Luna, Trent.
Trent took her hand in his gloved right hand. You said that once already.
Last time I didnt mean it.

The mayors office was located in one of the very few above-ground buildings.
Mayor Quentin Noas was sitting behind his desk, reading, when Trent was ushered 
in. He was reading a real book, made of plastipaper; a Western, from the cover. 
His feet were up on the desk; a cigar was in the hand that wasnt holding the 
book.
The window behind the mayors desk had a wide, panoramic view of the Lunar 
surface.
The mayor of Bessel City was incredibly ancient. His face looked like a puzzle 
that had been assembled with a sledgehammer. It took him several moments before 
he even realized that Trent had been let in. He blinked slowly, like a lizard, 
and put down his Western. He took a puff of his cigar before saying anything. 
So youre
Trent said, Shh, putting a finger to his lips. Stepping up to the mayors 
desk, Trent put down the briefcase, opened it, and withdrew a circuit tracer. 
Circling the room slowly, he found three active power sources in the walls; the 
energy level was characteristic of listening devices. Returning to his 
briefcase, Trent withdrew his handheld, tuned into a news Board, and turned the 
volume high. He made the circuit again, and found another listening device, a 
passive bug that did not operate unless activated by the sound of people 
talking. Nobody ever listens, Trent muttered, except when theyre not 
supposed to. Whistling, Trent rummaged in his briefcase and came up with a 
handful of tiny speakers. He rummaged in the briefcase again until he found the 
glue and used it to affix the speakers to the walls over the listening devices. 
Trent turned the speakers on.
Domino stood in the doorway, watching Trent curiously.
Crossing behind the mayors desk, Trent checked the drapes; thick, heavy cloth. 
He pulled the drapes closed over the window. He came back around to the front of 
the mayors desk and turned off his handheld.
The walls of Mayor Noas office were hung with paintings. Some were good, in 
Trents semieducated opinion; some were not. He was certain that all of them 
were expensive. Trent wandered around without speaking, looking at the 
paintings.
Mayor Noas leaned forward and jabbed his cigar at Trent. Are you the Trent I 
think you are?
I dont know, said Trent honestly. He added, My name is Trent, Trent the 
thief. I need Credit for a job I have in mind and I thought it would be nice if 
you gave it to me. Trent had stopped before an old acrylic painting. The 
painting showed a beautiful kitten sitting in the middle of  black and white 
tile floor, with a blond Caucasian doll clutched in its mouth. There were 
puncture wounds in the body of the doll, and blood oozed from the injury, 
dripping to the pristine floor beneath. It was signed H. Devlin. This is good. 
A little sick, but
Everyone thought you were dead.
They were wrong.
My God, son, dyou have any idea at all how hot you are?
Yes.
The mayor of Bessel City nodded. What could you possibly do for me that would 
entice me to stick my head out where the Peaceforcers are gonna blast it off?
Trent stepped to the side so that he could look at the painting in a different 
light. Want to sell this?
Nah. You couldnt afford it; it was painted by the Prophet Harry hisself. 
Mayor Noas stared at the back of Trents head. Tell me why you closed the 
drapes.
When you speak, the sound waves vibrate the window panes. Not muchless so than 
on Earth, where theres no pressure differential to keep the windows rigid the 
way they are herebut enough. If somebody outside bounces a very low intensity 
laser off the window, decodes the modulation in the returning beam, poof. Your 
security is useless. On Earth Id have attached a buzzer to the window; up here 
a thick curtain is just as good.
Mayor Noas chewed on his inner lip. Damn, I was afraid youd have a good reason 
for doing that. What dyou want?
Access to a full-sensory terminal and the Free Luna InfoNet. It shouldnt take 
me more than twenty minutes. I need it soon.
Mayor Noas examined the end of his cigar. Thats tough, Trent.
Trent turned suddenly. Thats not my fault, is it?
Mayor Noas blinked. What?
I want to use your full-sensory, Trent repeated. After a moment, as though he 
were making a concession, he added, If you let me use the full-sensory Ill 
contract a boost for you. A very reasonable boost, only a half-million CU, 
250,000 up front as expense Credit.
Mayor Noas had a sharp, barking laugh. Dyou know who youre talking to, son? 
Before I joined Bessel I was one of the top Syndic Lords in Luna.
I know. Thats why Im here. An ex-Syndic Lord with ties to the Erisian Claw, 
ties to the SpaceFarers Collective, ties to the CityStates Trent said mildly, 
You keep a low profile, Mayor Noas. I spent five thousand CU having a Player I 
know on Earth do a search of Syndic Lords doing time off Earth. Once we had that 
list we had to cull to find out who got exiled for incompetence and who got 
exiled for politics. Then we culled again for known members of the Temple of 
Eris. Trent said evenly, Your name popped up, retired two and a half years, 
hired by Bessel Astrogation Products to manage the city of Bessel Free Luna. 
Youre the first person on the list, Quentin. Youre not the last.
I know, said Mayor Noas, just about every damn thing worth boosting on this 
entire planet. First of all, theres nothing worth paying five hunnert thousand 
Credits for. Second, if there was, and there aint, you are just about the last 
man on this planet Id contract it to. I dont need the PKF renegotiating our 
treaty.
Ill steal the LINK for you.
Besides, Mayor Noas was continuing, in a somewhat gentler tone, and he rose 
from behind his desk, youll what?
Steal the LINK, Trent said. At Mayor Noas look of incomprehension, he added, 
The Key. You know, the Lunar InfoNet Key.
It cant be done.
Ive studied it. I know something about the program that runs the LINK 
transputers; its called Watchdog. I know an awful lot about the layout of the 
Farside DataWatch facility from which the LINK is administered. I can make the 
boost.
Mayor Noas swore, Damn it, you cant! The Key is tucked away in a computer in 
the middle of the PKF Farside base at Jules Verne. You could as easily walk 
through Peaceforcer Heaven!
Trent grinned at Mayor Noas. Hello.
The mans own words sank in on him. Oh, Lord. He blinked again, took a long, 
contemplative drag on his stogie. Do you really think you can?
Trent looked at Domino, watching him almost warily from the doorway, and then 
back at Noas. Yes, I really do.
Mayor Quentin Noas sank back down into his seat. By Harry. You He broke off, 
at a complete loss for words. He sat at his desk, smoking furiously, blue clouds 
of smoke swirling up around him. He was not looking at Trent, at anything. 
Finally he said, Domino.
Yes?
What happens? We take the boy up on it, I mean.
At half a million CU? Well need clearance further up the line, for starters. 
Then
Thats not what I mean. He makes the boost, comes away clean. What happens!
Domino said abruptly, Trent. Are we talking about destruction of the LINK?
If you like. The LINK is a combination of hardware and software. Theres no way 
you get the hardware. I think I can arrange that you get the control program. 
You wont be able to do with it what the PKF is using it for, but Trent 
shrugged. Neither will they.
Domino stood in the doorway, looking at Trent coolly, speculatively. All right. 
For starters it means DataWatch loses control of their own InfoNet. If we have 
the LINK software and a good webdancer to supervise, then it means well have 
access to at least some of the DataWatch Boards, at least briefly. Longer term, 
Id guess they couldnt put the LINK system back in place. It was instituted 
when there werent any computers on Luna to speak of, and grew with it.
Trent looked at the woman with a degree of genuine respect. Youre not a 
webdancer?
Domino shook her head. No.
You got most of it. My favorite part is where DataWatch gets locked out of its 
own Boards until they strip out the LINK protocols. And I think youre right 
about the LINK not going back up again, especially if some smart people get 
together and transmit the Earth InfoNet protocols to everybody on Luna while 
DataWatch is still down for the count. At worst, if what Im thinking of fails, 
Ill probably be able to destroy the Key and kill the program that runs it. At 
best we can join the Free Luna InfoNet with the U.N. InfoNet, and take control 
of the U.N. InfoNet away from them forever.
Mayor Noas voice was troubled. Half a million CU.
Trent said flatly, Its what I need. This is going to be expensive every step 
of the way.
There was a long silence. Finally Mayor Noas shook his head decisively. I cant 
commit to something this big.
Trent nodded. So what happens?
I need to call in some people, run it by them.
I see. How many people are we talking about?
Mayor Noas looked at Domino. Three?
Four. Well need to bring in a rep from Bessel Astrogation Products.
Trent lifted an eyebrow. Why dont you just call a press conference?
Dominos voice took on a degree of coldness that was truly impressive. These 
are discreet people, Trent.
Nobody, said Trent, ever listens. He smiled at Domino. But they sure do 
love to talk.
If you want help, said Domino, if you need help, these are the people you 
need to talk to.
Trent spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. You talked me into it. Im 
definitely going to need help. At least three other people, maybe four. And 
seven bodies, six male and one female.
Mayor Noas blinked and said, Seven bodies?
Trent nodded. With dental work.




6-
 ^  
The fat man said, I dont think names are necessary.
There were six of them all told, sitting across the long table, facing Trent. 
Trent sat alone, handheld on the table in front of him, wearing his traceset. 
The camera in the handheld had scanned them as they entered the room.
Mayor Quentin Noas and Vice-Mayor Domino were sitting together at one end of the 
table. One of the four directly across from Trent was obviously a SpaceFarer, a 
black-bearded man wearing ships colors which Trent did not recognize. The fat 
man sat next to the SpaceFarer, and next to the fat man were an old, dark-haired 
Caucasian woman in a floatchair, and a handsome young man in his late twenties 
or early thirties, wearing a gray business suit.
BINGO. GOT ONE ALREADY, BOSS. THE OLD WOMAN IS NAMED BELINDA SINGER.
WOULD YOU BELIEVE I RECOGNIZED HER MYSELF?
 I SUPPOSE. WAIT. YES, I WOULD. 2062; SHE EMPLOYED THE CASTANAVERAS TELEPATHS 
BEFORE THEY WERE DESTROYED.
BACKGROUND, JOHNNY JOHNNY?
UHM  UPWARD OF 110 YEARS OLD BY SOME INDETERMINATE AMOUNT. HER ACTUAL AGE IS 
GUARDED VERY CLOSELY. SHES THE SPACEFARER COLLECTIVES SINGLE LARGEST DOWNSIDE 
SHAREHOLDER. ACCORDING TO THE FORBES 500 LISTING SHES THE TWENTIETH OR 
TWENTY-FIRST WEALTHIEST PERSON IN THE SYSTEM; SHE HAS THE REPUTATION OF BEING 
FRIENDLY WITH KNOWN MEMBERS OF THE JOHNNY REBS.
Perhaps two seconds had passed. Trent said, Fine by me. We got briefed by 
Domino before we agreed to come, the fat man continued. Trent had already 
tagged the man for Syndic. I like most of what I hear. Loss of the Key locks 
them out of their own Boards for at least two or three days, while the people 
who have the Keyushave at least limited access to them. A couple of months 
pass before they can even begin bringing up a tracking system like the one 
theyve got right now. And maybe they dont ever get it back up again, which is 
a hell of a blow to Unification interests off Earth. He grinned cynically. 
Also, I like how youve planned your getaway. I think youre going to kill 
yourself trying it, but its a great idea.
BINGO ON TWO, BOSS. THE CHUBBY FELLOW IS NORMAN SHELTON. NOT EXACTLY A SYNDIC 
LORD, BUT CLOSE. LICENSED TO PRACTICE UNIFICATION LAW.
The young man in the gray business suit said, in thickly accented English, I am 
here representing the interests of the Erisian Claw. We would suggest one change 
to your plan.
That being?
As you have laid this out, you are going to immense trouble to avoid harming a 
group of Peaceforcers whom you plan to ambush.
Thats correct. johnny? anything on this one?
 NO. OR THE SPACEFARER EITHER. BUT THEYRE FILED FOR FUTURE REFERENCE.
The young man nodded. He said gently, It seems to many of my colleagueswell, 
rather excessive concern for what is, after all, the welfare of officers of the 
PKF.
Were not killing anybody, said Trent. He stared at the handsome young man. 
Nobody. You want to kill Peaceforcers, fine. But you do it on your own time.
The man shrugged, leaned back in his seat without expression. He sat watching 
Trent, like all the others. Merely a suggestion.
Well, said Norman Shelton. I think that about covers it. Were in.
Trent stood upright, very slowly, and leaned across the table. What?
Shelton said again, Were in. Well fund it. Frankly I think youve underpriced 
yourself, but thats really your problem.
Trent kept his voice under tight control. Ive been kept waiting here at Bessel 
for four days, denied access to a full-sensory InfoNet terminal the entire 
while, until you folks could manage to assemble yourselves in one place, so that 
we could have this very important meeting. This was it, was it? The whole 
meeting? I just want to make sure I didnt miss anything.
Possibly you have missed something. It was the first time Belinda Singer had 
spoken through the entire meeting. Her voice was strong, the voice of a woman 
used to decades of instant obedience. Do you recognize me, young man?
Trent answered without any pause at all. Should I?
It was amazing how much sharpness she managed to put into a sentence that was in 
fact phrased politely. Answer my question, please.
Yes. Youre Belinda Singer.
Fine, she said briskly. Then we can forget this crap about not knowing each 
others names. Youre Trent Castanaveras.
Trent did not look away from the old womans gaze. A lot of people seem to 
think so.
The last time I spoke to Malko Kalharri, said Belinda Singer, was about two 
weeks before he died. He and Doctor Montignet were both worried about you.
Trents voice was totally empty. Thats nice. You know theyre dead, of 
course.
It was on the Boards.
Maybe they should have been worrying more about themselves. Im still alive. 
Theyre not.
Belinda Singer said simply, Young man, why are you doing this?
The boost?
Yes, she said gently. The boost. 
Im getting paid.
She snorted. Bullshit.
Im getting paid a lot.
Bullshit again. Singer picked up her handheld, turned it so that its holofield 
faced Trent. Half a million. I make your expenses at somewhere around two 
hundred thousand, maybe as high as two and a quarter. Youre left with an upside 
of between two-seventy-five and three hundred. She locked gazes with Trent. I 
had a very trustworthy associate run a probability analysis of this undertaking. 
These are rough figures, but close. Trent, your chance of walking out of the 
DataWatch Farside facility in one piece is about twenty-five percent. Fifty 
percent capture, followed by execution. Twenty-five percent you die inside 
before getting captured. I know a bit about you, boy. Youve given over three 
hundred thousand CU to the World Food Bank in your short life. People who can 
give away that sort of Credit to charity are rarely willing to put their lives 
at serious risk simply to acquire a similar amount.
Her figures were in fact very close to those Trent had worked out with Johnny 
Johnny. So?
So, said Belinda Singer, unless I get a straight answer out of you, Im going 
to pull out. If I pull out I can pretty much guarantee you no SpaceFarer craft 
in the Collective is going to agree to do the pickup you need.
Why is it relevant?
Belinda Singer closed her eyes for a moment, sat motionlessly, and took a slow 
breath. When she opened her eyes again she said, Trent, humor me. Im a cranky 
old woman and smart-ass answers make me even crankier. Malko Kalharri was one of 
the dearest friends I ever had, and on his behalf I feel a certain reluctance to 
let you waste your life casually. Calling what youre talking about doing here 
aboost, I believe the word is?calling it a boost is like saying a laser cannon 
is useful for starting the fireplace.
It took Trent a moment to decipher the commenthe had never actually seen a 
fireplace which burned woodbut when he did, he could not suppress a chuckle. 
Point. Can we speak privately?
Without glancing away from Trent, Belinda Singer said, You can leave. They 
were alone within thirty seconds.
Trent reached forward, turned off his handheld, and waited. After a moment, 
Belinda Singer did the same. Trent nodded. Thank you. I swept for bugs before 
the meeting. There are two, but theyre recording the sounds Mayor Noas makes in 
his bathtub. Its not pretty. He looked down for a moment at the tabletop, 
ordering his thoughts. His fingernails needed trimming. Weve met, you know.
Really? Singer actually looked surprised. When?
I dont remember exactly. Early 2062. You visited the Chandler Complex after 
the Eighth Amendment was signed, before the Complex was destroyed.
Singer looked troubled. Thats odd. My memory is actually quite good. I 
remember that tripwait.
Trent said, Your floatchair broke.
The old woman pointed a finger at Trent. You were the little boy who fixed my 
floatchair! I remember you now. We didnt get introduced.
Trent shrugged. You were being He paused, said, Cranky.
Amazingly, Singer actually colored slightly. I remember that, too. Being around 
so many of those little telepathsit made me nervous.
It made everyone nervous, Trent said precisely. Thats why they were killed.
Yes, Singer said slowly. I guess theres some truth in that. She shook the 
bad memories away with a visible effort. Lets get back to business. Im sure 
you realize by now the reason you were made to wait four days was so I could 
talk to you.
Its a bit obvious.
I am willing, the old woman said clearly, to see you die if it buys the 
destruction of the LINK. Assuming you die at Jules Verne, and I think it likely, 
I really have no problem with advancing you your quarter-million CU. She made a 
deprecating gesture. Its mostly my money youll be spending. But its a good 
investment. I think your chances of surviving this operation are poorbut my 
staff gives me odds of better than two-thirds that the LINK goes down. Taking 
the Lunar InfoNet away from DataWatch She was silent for a moment. I cant 
even estimate what thats worth. Short-term, hundreds of millions of CU in 
increased trade with Free Luna. Long-term Her voice trailed off, and she sat 
looking at Trent.
Trent actually smiled. Unfortunately, theres this terrible possibility I might 
survive.
If you survive this stunt, she said quietly, the Secretary-Generals office 
is going to request that you be handed over to the Unification. They may very 
well threaten war if youre not handed over. No matter how pleased the 
Collective turns out to be at what youve doneand make no mistake, theyll be 
pleasedmost of them wont be willing to risk war to protect someone who likes 
to tell people hes a thief. Even if hes a good thief. Unless there is some 
level of mutual commitment, extending beyond this one boost, I would guess, 
Trent, that the Collective will indeed give you to the PKF when its all over.
Trent sat motionlessly, thinking, considering his options. There werent many.
Youre in high-stakes territory, young man. If you survive this, Trent, youll 
need us to protect you for, I dont know, the next several years at least. It 
would be in your best interests, said Belinda Singer very gently, to make sure 
that the Collective needs you as well.
Why am I doing this.
It does come down to that, doesnt it?
Trent found that his mouth was very dry. Its a lengthy explanation.
Try to trim it a bit, then. Im an old woman, Id hate to die on you just when 
it gets good.
When I was young, Trent began.
Belinda Singer smothered a laugh, waved a hand at Trent. Sorry. Go on.
Trent glared at her. I used to admire the PKF.
A lot of us did.
Shut up. You want to bare your soul, you wait until Im done. I used to admire 
the PKF. He paused, waited for her to say something, and when she did not he 
continued. When I was younger. There are still individual Peaceforcers I 
admire. The problems not with the people; most Peaceforcers are honorable, 
doing their jobs as well as theyre able within the boundaries of the laws 
theyre sworn to serve. A lot of the laws are bad laws, and most of the policies 
are bad policies. When I was a part of society, back on Earth, I spent a fair 
amount of Credit funding lobbyists, to try to get some of those laws and 
policies changed. And then they pushed me outside and I couldnt keep doing 
that. I ran. He swept a hand around the room. I ended up here. And I was 
almost willing to let it go. I wanted revenge, and I still do, and Ill have 
itbut I wasnt seriously planning to try for the LINK.
Then a squad of Peaceforcers killed a friend of mine. They let out his air and 
shot him with masers. He died in horrible pain. And I want revenge for that, 
too, and Ill have it.
Belinda Singer was nodding, quietly, without any trace of emotion that Trent 
could detect. So thats it. I think
Thats not it.
She lifted an eyebrow in surprise. No?
When I was eight years old I decided I was an atheist. When I was ten I became 
an existentialist. Most Players are. But when you dismiss God and decide theres 
nothing in the universe to rely on but yourself, you have to find some way to 
bring meaning to your life. When I was ten years old I decided I was going to 
change the world. Improve it. Make it a better place. She was watching him 
carefully, weighing each word. The Unification, said Trent, is going bad. 
Its been going bad for a long time. I wanted to fix it from the inside, but I 
cant do that any longer. Maybe I never could and I was kidding myself.
So?
I wanted to make a difference when I was ten, Belinda. It was the first time 
he had called her by name, and he saw her notice it. I still do.
Belinda Singer nodded, accepting it. I still need to hear you say it, Trent.
Trent took a deep breath. He felt vaguely sick, as though the world were 
blurring around him. There was a remote ringing in his ears; there were 
butterflies in his stomach, army butterflies on a three-day leave. His voice 
sounded as though it did not belong to him. We must bring down the Unification. 
It is time to bring it down.
Long eons later, when the ringing in his ears had faded into quiet, when the 
trembling in his shoulders had ceased, he looked up and saw Belinda Singer 
watching him with a grave expression. That was hard, wasnt it?
He whispered the word. Yes.
You have to trust people in this life, Trent. We all do. She was silent a 
beat. The hell of it is, it never ever gets any easier.

The guard at the entrance to the cubicle, a man dressed in much the same 
almost-uniform that Domino had worn, except that his was brown rather than 
scarlet, said, Twenty minutes.
Closing the door of the cubicle behind him, Trent seated himself behind the 
wraparound control console. Surveying the board before him, Trent began making 
attachments. He jacked his handheld into the board; the MRI helmet went over his 
head, all the way down to his shoulders. Inside the helmet, headphones extruded 
themselves and clamped over his ears; laser projectors focused themselves on 
each eye.
There was a brief moment of disorientation as the systerm went online.
The MRI imaging sensors came alive, setting up a strong magnetic field that 
polarized those nuclei in Trents brain which possessed net magnetic charge. A 
second and weaker magnetic field, applied at right angles to the first, caused 
the nuclei to tip into new positions, emitting a radio signal in the process. 
Millions of radio nanoreceptors in the full-sensory traceset fed into a limited 
expert system whose only function was to trace correspondences in Trents 
thought processes with known thought processes. It was a slow procedure; on 
Trents vanished full-sensory on Earth, which had a functional map of Trents 
internal nerve net, the link had been nearly instantaneous. Here, on hardware 
that did not know how Trent thought, it took most of a minute before the first 
flicker of the Crystal Wind reached him.
Johnny Johnny said softly, HI, BOSS.
HI, JOHNNY.
GONNA DANCE?
YES.
ABOUT TIME.
They joined together; Johnny Johnny reached out, found the first step to the 
Free Luna InfoNet 
Johnny Johnny threw himself into the Net, and moved outward. The 
DataWatch-controlled Lunar InfoNet itself was forbidden him, but that still 
left
the Lunar telexchange, used for voice and data communications to and from orbit 
by Free Luna and U.N. Luna alike. Johnny Johnny attached tracers to all 
communications, waiting for something that was headed upward. Free Luna had a 
population of three and a half million; less than a fiftieth of a second had 
passed when Johnny Johnny found what he was looking for, a message heading up to 
the PKF orbital satellites. A PKF spy, almost certainly; Johnny Johnny diverted 
the message back into the telexchange and took the diverted message packages 
place, flowing out to a microwave relay that beamed up into the PKF satellites. 
There were others using the relay, but Johnny Johnny needed as much of its 
capacity as he could get; he took over all the empty lines, and then began 
freezing lines as other users finished and released them. It was done delicately 
enough, slowly enough, that Watchdog would probably not notice it.
In multiple channels Johnny Johnny leaped upward.
His retreat was reasonably secure, over two hundred channels in every relay, an 
entire series of relays left open at the telexchange. Inside the comsat, Johnny 
Johnny waited again. He did not touch anything. Significant real-world time 
passed while he waitednearly two secondsbefore a PKF slipship orbiting over 
Farside was sent a recreational poker program. Johnny Johnny broke into it, 
increasing the signal complexity, injecting a pared-down version of himself into 
the signal progression at a one-hundred-to-one ratio. The noise level was 
acceptable, and the signal went through. Slowly, over the course of seconds, 
Johnny Johnny found himself inside the Peaceforcer slipship.
Johnny Johnny took momentary control of the on-board computer; he located L-5 
and sent a distress call to it through the orbiting slipship. (On board, the 
Peaceforcer noted a momentary blurriness in the simulated stud she was playing 
poker with.)
Spacebase One responded to the emergency distress call, opening a wide maser 
channel to the affected ship. Johnny Johnny informed Spacebase One that he was 
the program in control of the slipship, that he was experiencing traumatic 
equipment failure, and that he was not certain that his own integrity was 
assured. He requested aid from Spacebase Ones diagnostics to determine what 
steps to take.
For a long moment Johnny Johnny did not think it was going to work.
Then the diagnostic routines at Spacebase One requested that the damaged 
slipship beam its control program back to Spacebase One for examination. A 
high-bandwidth comm laser touched the slipship, and Johnny Johnny poured through 
the connection, froze it open behind him, and ate the diagnostics program at 
Spacebase One.
The diagnostics program had access to Spacebase Ones comm facilities. Johnny 
Johnny took a dozen nanoseconds, redirected the satellite to lase directly at 
Spacebase One, cutting the slipship out of the link. He delved further then, 
identified the program in use as the Communications Manager, and identified all 
of the resources that were available to the Manager.
And crashed them.
Every comm channel in Spacebase One, external and internal.
Two seconds passed before anyone even noticed, an eternal six before anything 
was done about it. A human webdancer in the Operations Information Center at the 
very core of Spacebase One crossed the interface and dove into the Crystal Wind. 
She did not notice Johnny Johnny, sitting silently in the darkness. The problem 
was immediately obvious, if unexpected; the Communications Manager had crashed 
itself. She requested access to Main Storage so that she might invest a new 
communications manager; the request was received, processed, granted, and she 
fell into the core.
With Johnny Johnny right behind her.
The file Security Manager, a passive observer which functioned largely as an 
alarm, politely informed Johnny Johnny that there were three Access Levels 
available, only one of which Johnny Johnny was authorized to access freely. 
Level One was a sieve; Johnny Johnny flashed through it in its entirety in 
seconds. The name he sought (even his biological component did not consciously 
think the word Trent) was nowhere to be found, so he sought a higher level.
Level Two was harder; the Security Manager politely informed Johnny Johnny that 
he would be allowed access to only one file at a time, and that a human 
webdancer in the Operations Information Center would be notified of each file 
accessed. Johnny Johnny ghosted himself, split himself into dozens of copies for 
the Security Manager to deal with. The Security Manager accepted one request for 
a file, and then another, and finally a third before informing one of Johnny 
Johnnys ghosts that it could accept only three requests before a webdancer 
approved the request. Johnny Johnny ignored the Security Manager, delved into 
the files.
The Security Manager screamed for help.
Human response time is slow; Johnny Johnny guessed he had at least three full 
seconds, perhaps as many as five, before a webdancer came to see what was wrong.
While the Security Manager watched, helplessly, Johnny Johnny tore through the 
database on Level Two.
Nothing.
Over a second had passed.
There was a sentinel, a sort of primitive web angel, at the entrance to Level 
Three. Johnny Johnny submitted to the sentinel a request for access, watched the 
sentinel as it executed, considered the request and denied it. The sentinel was 
a small program, though well coded, with less than ten megabytes of RAM assigned 
to it for workspace. Johnny Johnny fired another request, and then another. The 
sentinel employed a primitive sort of ghosting, multitasking the two requests 
together. It slowed noticeably, and expanded slightly to claim more of the ten 
megabytes of RAM available to it.
Johnny Johnny ghosted himself a thousand thousand times.
And then each ghost started asking for entry to Level Three.
Nearly two seconds had passed, and now the System Tools appeared, scanned 
through the workspace Johnny Johnny occupied, running diagnostic test upon 
diagnostic test to determine the cause of the malfunction. Some of the tests 
Johnny Johnny was able to fool; most of them he could not.
The sentinel ballooned wildly, expanded to fill the maximum workspace allotted 
it. Johnny Johnny fired request after request at the sentinel even after it had 
reached peak load. The sentinel attempted to re-allocate memory internally, to 
shell out memory being used by the instruction stack and reassign that memory to 
the queued requests of a million ghosts.
Web angels appeared out of nowhere, tore into Johnny Johnnys ghosts. Johnny 
Johnny ignored the web angels, concentrating on the sentinel
which was faltering. The sentinel was oscillating wildly, thrashing senselessly 
in its attempts to deal with the massive overload of data. Johnny Johnny kept up 
the stream of new requests, pushing now as the sentinel
crashed.
More than half of Johnny Johnnys ghosts were dead. Johnny Johnny dissected the 
sentinel quickly, disassembled the instructions which had composed it. In its 
default configuration the sentinel used less than two megabytes of RAM; it was 
going to be a hell of a squeeze.
Nearly a full four seconds had passed before the web angels reported the files 
secure. Four and a half seconds from the moment when the Security Manager had 
first screamed for help, a human webdancer shimmered into existence, loaded 
Diagnostics and started hunting.
Johnny Johnny, wearing the sentinels code as a disguise, responded as the code 
he had absorbed said he should when the webdancer came at last to him. The 
webdancer paused a thousandth of a second, examining the shell of the sentinel, 
and then passed on.
Fully ten seconds later, Johnny Johnny applied once more to search the Level 
Three files.
And then gave himself permission.
Ten minutes after entering the cubicle Trent opened his eyes to Realtime. He 
began shedding attachments; removed his handheld from the systerm.
Johnny Johnny said aloud, Boss, are you sure this was a good idea?
Hell of a time to ask, Johnny.
Well?
No, Johnny. Im not sure. His Images silence seemed almost reproachful to 
Trent, and he said at last, Its a start. We have to start somewhere.
And whats this supposed to do? Changing one file? Boss, I dont understand.
Its going to make them look silly, Johnny. Its worse than killing them, you 
know. Theyd rather die gloriously than be laughed at.
Oh.
Johnny Johnny was silent after that, and Trent also. Trent spent his free ten 
minutes in silent meditation.
When the guard rapped on the door, Trent exited without hurry, briefcase in 
hand.




7-
 ^  
November 1, 2069.
He stood in the Operations Information Center from which Spacebase One was run. 
It was at the very core of the long cylinder about which Spacebase One was 
constructed, protected by layer upon layer of radiation shielding; a direct hit 
by a tactical nuke upon the surface of Spacebase One would not have harmed him.
With the departure to Earth of Etienne Gericault, he was the senior PKF at 
Spacebase One. A tall, grim man who looked older than he was, gravely handsome, 
dark-eyed and dark-haired, surveying a monument to his own failure.
His name was Mohammed Vance. He carried himself with a peculiar power of 
presence that only physically impressive, intelligent men possess.
That the operations center was silent at the moment was his failure. Until just 
the prior day it had been filled with PKF officers, coordinating the details of 
the search for the Player, the thief, the man named Trent.
Now the webdancers systerms were empty. The monitor posts scanned silently 
without human intervention.
There was one other person actually in the operations room, a young Elite 
candidate named Melissa du Bois. She sat rigidly at her station, her recently 
shortened hair waving gently in the breeze from the vents.
On the great holofield, stretching out to cover most of a twenty-meter expanse 
of hullmetal, burned the image of a Hand of the Trinity, a too-confident young 
man named Jean Lumet.
Lumet was saying, placatingly, Commissionaire, I appreciate your desire to 
continue your search for this criminal. If it were up to me I would allow it. 
He shrugged in a very Gallic manner. It is not up to me, and you have no 
choice.
In the calm, deep voice that gave junior PKF officers nightmares, Mohammed Vance 
said, I tell you, Hand Lumet, that he is alive.
Three seconds passed, the lightspeed lag from L-5, in Lunar orbit, to Earth; 
Lumet made a helpless gesture. Commissionaire  what would you have me do? I am 
not an officer of the PKF, sir; and the order to desist in your search has come 
from Elite Commander Mirabeau herself.
Vance scowled with displeasure. Something would have to be done about Mirabeau 
soon, as something had been done about her predecessor, Elite Commander 
Breilleune.
Eventually, there would be a competent and sufficiently ruthless Elite to 
represent the interests of the PKF to the Unification.
Eventually 
Lumet took another tack. Commissionaire, the vehicle that the criminal stole 
was broken cleanly in two. Most of the hull was torn away in the missile 
blastand dont think that words have not been said about that missile salvo you 
fired. It was the most fantastic luck that
Luck, Vance said impatiently, is something fools rely upon. The north end of 
the base was evacuated at my order following the attack upon the slipship bay. 
If anyone had been hurt it would have been due solely to disregard of orders. 
There was minimal danger.
Oh? Lumet lifted a sardonic eyebrow. And if one of the warheads had 
detonated?
Simulation showed the possibility of such an outcome at only one in 
approximately forty.
You ran that simulation, Commissionaire, only after giving the command.
Vance stared unblinking at Lumet. The accusation was completely correct; only 
Vance and two of his most trusted assistants had been present when that 
simulation had finally been run. One of those two
Vance said quietly, I withdraw the objection. Nonetheless, the damage done to 
the reputation of the PKF Elite by the murder of one of its members cannot be 
tolerated. The example is one that
Commissionaire, please. Lumet waved a hand in dismissal. It has been three 
months without a sign of the man. This Dark Clouds criminalthere, I think, you 
grasp at straws. A random and completely unproductive attack by ideologs on a 
DataWatch facility in Luna City. Vague, unreliable reports that a nephew 
appeared at approximately the same time as the stolen Space Force vehicle 
crasheda partial print in the ruins of the, ah, bolt-hole, I believe it is 
calledwhich may have belonged to the criminal Trentwhy go on? You postulate an 
utterly ridiculous chain of events. The man cannot be alive.
Lumet turned off-camera momentarily. One moment. He turned back to Vance. My 
presence is required elsewhere. I think we have covered the situation.
Vance said grimly, Samples at the site of the explosion of the Space Force 
vehicle did not show the trace elements that should have been there had a living 
human been present at the time of the explosion.
Lumet sighed. Commissionaire, your own recordings show how badly that vehicle 
was damaged. Conceivably his body fell over some other part of Luna entirely.
The engines were firing. The vehicle made a soft touchdown.
With strained patience, Lumet said, Sir. The piloting was characteristic of a 
vehicle on autopilot. You
Or of a vehicle controlled by a Player.
Lumet ignored the comment entirely. told me this yourself! I have discussed 
this as much as I care to. I am not responsible for originating this order, but 
I will see it carried out. That I have tolerated your argument so long as I have 
is only in recognition of your years of valuable service. Your abnormal interest 
in this solitary criminal will stop and it will stop now. The search is called 
off, and you will report back to Capitol City at your earliest convenience. All 
of these things you will do.
Mohammed Vance said very evenly, Do you realize to whom you are speaking?
Lumet took a long, slow breath. Sir, yes. Commissionaire, I do not want you as 
my enemy. I believe Elite Commander Breilleune became your enemy, and he is 
dead. HoweversirI have no leeway in this matter. Lumet paused a moment and 
said, Nor do you. Good day to you, sir.
The field went blank.
After brooding in silence for several minutes, Vance said, Officer du Bois.
The woman did not look at him. Sir.
You have met this man. You have spoken with him. Alone among our officers, you 
chose to wait for him at the North Bay. What is your opinion?
She said slowly, I do not understand, sir.
He turned slightly, stood looking at her. Do you believe him to be alive?
Her head bent slightly, in an attitude of contemplation. Her voice, when she 
spoke, was little more than a whisper. He is  the most alive person I have 
ever met. He would not die so easily.
Easily?
The sharp word brought her up; she held her gaze wavering against his for 
several moments. Sir, he is alive. I know he is.
Vance studied her for a moment, then nodded. All the tension spilled out of him 
at once. Yes, it is interesting. And disappointing  A man, he said, looking 
now toward the empty holofield, is defined in some ways by the things he tests 
himself against. The Erisian Claw, the Johnny Rebs, most Players even, they are 
too easy. I have rarely faced a challenge such as this boy Trent. He turned 
away abruptly. Nor, I think, will I again. Access his file. Reassign it to 
Access Level One, as per orders.
Melissa du Bois did as instructed, through the traceset at her temples issued 
the necessary commands. She did not realize she had made any sound whatsoever, 
surely nothing that would have brought such instant response from Commissionaire 
Vance. In the ambient blue glow from the holofield her features had taken on an 
icy cast, like a statue formed of wax.
He said, What is it? in almost the same instant that the word, Sir, tore 
itself from her throat.
Vance turned back to her with a degree of grace utterly improbable in a man so 
large. He approached her op station, the certainty growing deep within him, and 
leaned over to stare at what should have been Trents file.
The file was gone.
In its place were five words.
Five scarlet words that glared up at Mohammed Vance, glowing bright red against 
the blue backdrop of the holofield, shining on his cyborg retinae as though they 
would permanently inscribe themselves there, and a harsh, fierce joy descended 
upon Mohammed Vance, like the answer to a prayer.
Vance said softly, Officer du Bois. We are going to Luna together, you and I. 
Five words.
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN.




8-
 ^  
Hey, you cant go in there.
Why not?
Theres going to be a news conference, the Peaceforcer said.
I know that. Trent examined the Peaceforcer standing duty at the entrance to 
the Luna City Hall conference room. She seemed awfully young to Trent; tall and 
painfully thin, 260 centimeters at least. Pure homegrown loonie. Trent hadnt 
even known that there were native loonies in the PKF. But thats two hours from 
now, sweetheart. I have to fix a line of dead lasercable.
But Im not
Whats your name?
Officer Stout.
You dont look it. Listen. Trent stepped closer to the loonie and had to tilt 
his head up slightly to meet her eyes. The System Business Journal Board pays 
sixty CU a month for the privilege of recording PKF news conferences. The first 
time in five years you have something thats really news, we have a dead line. 
If we have to lease coverage from some other Board, Officer Stout, I guarantee 
you youre going to hear about it.
But youll have holocams with you
Come on, said Trent impatiently, we pay for the fixed cameras because they 
give a steadier image. Five minutes tops. Im in and out.
The Peaceforcer looked Trent up and down in momentary indecision; Trent stood 
patiently, clutching the Black Box tool kit in one hand. The SBJ insignia on his 
jumpsuit was crooked. Though he had yet to undergo biosculpture, Katrina had 
done his makeup for him, and he looked only slightly like the Trent of whom the 
PKF had holos.
With a quick movement the Peaceforcer reached behind herself and slapped the 
pressure pad to open the door. Do it fast.
The conference room was large and empty; about 150 seats, a raised platform at 
one end with holocams already set up and focused on it. A pair of vending chefs 
held sentinel against one wall. A smaller empty platform to the right of the 
main platform was to be used for displaying holos; the projector was already 
turned on, an empty holofield dancing just this side of visibility upon the 
platform.
Trent wasted no time once the door had closed behind him. There were two access 
panels at each side of the room, marked as such, in the ceiling four meters 
above Trents head. Trent stood under the closer panel and jumped up once, 
pushing lightly at the panel as he reached it. The panel was not secured; it 
popped free instantly. With his free hand Trent pulled himself up through the 
ceiling, into the meter-high crawl space above the conference room.
It took a moment for Trents eyesight to adjust to the dimness. Every other 
panel in the ceiling sported a fire sprinkler; the water pipe which fed the 
sprinklers emerged from the wall at the far side of the conference room. Trent 
sighed, and on hands and knees moved as quickly as he could through the crawl 
space to the spot where the piping originated. He reached the place where the 
piping entered the wall and touched the pressure point to open the tool kit. 
Inside the tool kit there was a small red canister filled with concentrated 
Complex 8-A. Trent had designed and built the canister himself; in response to a 
question from Katrina he had declared that it was a tool for use in an adventure 
in plumbing.
He fastened the canister to the pipe, glued it carefully to the pipes surface, 
and waited while the glue set. The mechanism inside was simple; Trent touched a 
point on the canisters surface, and a small spike inside the canister punched 
down into the pipe, opening a passage between the fadeaway and the water that 
fed the sprinkler system.
He closed up the tool kit, crawled back to the accessway and poked his head down 
into the conference room. Empty. Trent dropped down to the ground and then 
jumped back up again to close the access panel.
At the huge double doors which let into the conference room, Trent withdrew a 
small spraytube of vacuum glue and blasted the surface of the double doors with 
it.
On the surface of the spraytube it said, dangerextremely FLAMMABLE IN 
PRESSURIZED ENVIRONMENTS. DO NOT USE NEAR OPEN FLAME, WELDING LASERS, OR ANY 
INTENSE HEAT.
The residue the glue left when it dried was slick, but not sticky; Trent was 
almost certain it would not be noticed.
Trent touched the pressure pad at the door, waited while the wide double doors 
curled open, smiled at Officer Stout on his way out, and went down a level to A1 
to have breakfast.

Trent would not have guessed that there were seventy-five newsdancers in all of 
Luna who would let themselves be roused for an 8:00 a.m. press conference.
The conference room was packed. Trent slipped in just behind the System Business 
Journal team, still wearing his blue jumpsuit with the SBJ insignia. The same 
loonie Peaceforcer was at the door, glancing at press badges as the newsdancers 
filed in. Officer Stout smiled at Trent when Trent walked by.
There were four seats and a podium set up on the central platform which had not 
been there when Trent had been in earlier that morning. Four Peaceforcers were 
up on the platform together, along with one nervous loonie in a business suit. 
The loonie turned out to be Luna City mayor Jerry Hoff, who made a brief speech 
thanking the PKF for their efforts in making Luna safe.
Trent recognized one of the Peaceforcers.
Mohammed Vance sat impassively through the mayors speech, arms folded, staring 
with glittering black cyborg eyes out into the crowd of newsdancers.
In the back of the conference room, Trent found somebody to stand behind.
At 8:05 exactly the Federal Express messenger arrived.
Mayor Hoff ran on: our violent crime, as a percentage of our population, is 
amazingly low, among the lowest in any human society in
There was a momentary hangup at the door; Officer Stout had not been instructed 
to let the messenger in. The argument was brief; Trent heard relatively little 
of it. Then the Federal Express man was inside, threading his way through the 
newsdancers up to the dais where Mohammed Vance and the other Peaceforcers were 
sitting. There was another brief delay at the stage, as one of the junior 
Peaceforcers attempted to prevent the man from delivering his package to Vance. 
Vance himself waved the young Peaceforcer away, reached down to the messenger to 
take the long, slim tube the messenger carried.
Trent nudged the SBJ newsdancer standing next to him, gestured at Vance, and 
said, You might want to record this.
The newsdancer glanced at Trent. Trent nodded wisely at him, and the man got his 
holocam up on his shoulder and turned on just in time to win himself an 
Electronic Times Award for Excellence in News Reporting; the conference rooms 
fixed holocams were focused on the podium, and of the seventy-odd portable 
holocams present, his was the only one focused on Commissionaire Vance as the 
Elite undid the tie on the box, opened the box itself and withdrew a single 
long-stemmed white rose.
Vance sat looking at the rose, holding the white rose in one black-gloved fist, 
without expression, clearly without comprehension. The SBJ newsdancer kept his 
holocam on Vance, and an instant later Vances hand curled around the rose, 
crushed it and dropped it to the floor of the dais. In that instant his features 
went absolutely scarlet; Trent had not even known that Peaceforcers Elite were 
capable of blushing.
Trent, Trent whispered to the SBJ newsdancer, is supposed to have a 
long-stemmed white rose tattooed on, uhm, a certain part of his body.
The newsdancer kept the holocam on Vance a moment longer, then turned it off and 
lowered it when it became clear Vance was going to do nothing at that particular 
moment. Just as quietly, he whispered back, Where?
Trent glanced around to make sure that nobody was listening to them, leaned very 
close to the newsdancer and whispered in the mans ear. He finished, and 
thats the only way youre supposed to be able to tell whether its a 
long-stemmed or a short-stemmed rose.
The newsdancer was chuckling. I hadnt heard that one.
Its true, Trent assured him.
The newsdancer looked at him skeptically. How would you know?
Trent shrugged and grinned at the man; the newsdancer started to turn back to 
Mayor Hoff, and then stopped dead, looking at the insignia on Trents jumpsuit. 
He whispered, Youre not with us.
Trent whispered back, I know that, and you know that, and he grinned again at 
the newsdancer, but they dont know that. .
Mayor Hoff concluded his speech; the newsdancer started to speak again and Trent 
said, Shh.
Most of the newsdancers had still not turned on their holo-cams when the mayor 
stepped away from the podium.
A Peaceforcer Trent did not recognize stood and took the podium. He did not 
introduce himself, but the newsdancers stilled somewhat in respect. Ive a 
brief recording to play for you, the man said quietly. Lights down.
The holo ran some fifteen minutes. Trent, who had been there for almost all of 
it, watched in fascination. It started with stills taken of him while in custody 
at the PKF Detention Center. A voice-over in Mohammed Vances deep, gravelly 
tones said, We have no recordings of the criminal during his escape from the 
Detention Center. The Player Johnny Johnny, whom we are almost certain is the 
Image of the criminal Trent, destroyed three quarters of the PKFs online 
storage in Capitol City. The images shifted as the voice-over continued, became 
a grainy scene of the Hoffman Spacescraper as seen from a hovering AeroSmith. 
Trent was clutching a girder while the wind whipped at his hair, and Emile Garon 
leaped toward him, fell to his death.
The scene changed again, became a flat image. The view was from a camera near 
the elevators which led to the rotating wheels at Spacebase One. Trent walked a 
pace behind Roger Colbert, wearing a SpaceFarer uniform. We have tentatively 
concluded that the SpaceFarers Collective had nothing to do with Trents escape 
from Earth. There were chuckles from the audience at what followed, as Trent 
squirt-gunned five Peaceforcers into unconsciousness. The chuckles stopped 
almost instantly when the recording cut to a still image of Spacebase One; they 
all knew what was coming. Whoever had assembled the holograph had done a good 
job; he held the image still for three seconds, four, and then the north end of 
Spacebase One blossomed into flame.
Standing in the back of the conference room, Trent nodded thoughtfully. The PKF 
could not possibly have had holocams available to record the explosion from that 
angle; the image they were showing the newsdancers was animated. Excellent work; 
Trent, who had done a fair amount of work with holopaintings and animated holos, 
could not have done the sequence better himself.
The lights came back up. The Peaceforcer whom Trent did not know said quietly, 
I give you Commissionaire Mohammed Vance of the PKF Elite.
Vance stood slowly, moved to the podium. In Lunar gravity, he bounced less than 
anyone else Trent had seen since he had arrived on that planet, including native 
loonies. At the podium he did not pause to make the customary eye contact with 
the crowd; he stared straight ahead and began speaking in quiet, measured tones. 
Perhaps a quarter of the newsdancers knew of him as the Peaceforcer who was 
reputed to have ordered the destruction of the Castanaveras telepaths; as a 
group they rewarded him with first real silence of the news conference.
I am Mohammed Vance. I have come to Luna for the specific purpose of capturing 
and seeing to the execution of this thief, this Player, Trent. With your aid I 
believe we will accomplish this quickly. We have evidence that Trent is still in 
United Nations territory. I am taking this opportunity to inform the citizens of 
United Nations Luna that a reward in the amount of five thousand Credit Units 
has been posted for information leading to the capture of this criminal. 
Vances stiff expression did not flicker at all; for the first time he glanced 
around the room, at the assembled newsdancers. Press kits have been assembled 
and will be given out when we are finished here. If you have any questions, 
please feel free to ask them now.
There was some method by which priority had been assigned, though Trent had no 
idea what it was; the newsdancers asked their questions in some predetermined 
order.
Commissionaire Vance, how close are you to capturing Trent?
I do not know.
Commissionaire Vance, how has Trent managed to evade capture for so long 
already?
Cleverness.
Commissionaire, is it true Trents one of the Castanaveras telepaths?
We do not know. I think it unlikely. Much has been made of the fact that the 
Bureau of Biotechnologys records show a child named Trent Castanaveras was 
born March 9, 2051. And indeed, the Trent we are searching for is of 
approximately the correct age to be that child. Still, I do think it 
unlikelyTrent has had difficulties in places where no telepath would have had 
difficulties.
Commissionaire, is Trent a genie?
It is entirely possible, but I cannot say with certainty.
Commissionaire, if he is a genie, in what area might he show enhancements?
He might show enhancements in virtually any area at all. I cannot say which 
enhancements might be more probable.
Commissionaire, is Trent dangerous?
Very. I must caution the public that if they feel they have identified Trent, 
to notify the PKF at once. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to apprehend 
this criminal yourself. As his attempted destruction of Spacebase One at L-5 
clearly shows, he possesses a disregard for human life which
Hiding behind a tall loonie newsdancer from the Electronic Times, Trent said, 
loudly enough to be heard across the length of the room, Oh, come on. Its not, 
his disregard for human life, its, our disregard for human life.
The newsdancer Trent had been speaking to earlier faded slowly away from Trent, 
stood holding his holocam casually at waist level, focused on Trent. Trent 
leaned toward him and whispered loudly enough for the holocam to catch it, 
Pronoun troubles.
Vance glanced across the conference room, looking without expression and without 
success for the source of the comment, and then backed up slightly and 
continued. a disregard for human life which ranks him with such ideologs as 
the Erisian Claw and the Johnny Rebs. He is
Trent stepped to his left, so that he stood immediately before the open double 
doors. Commissioner Vance.
Vance looked directly at Trent. He did not say anything. Around the conference 
room, heads were craning to look back at the door.
Isnt it true, Commissioner, that you were warned that it wasnt safe to use 
the weapons at Spacebase One, and that you did anyway? A few of the quicker 
newsdancers had their holocams on Trent by the time he had finished the 
question; the SBJ newsdancer at Trents side kept his holocam rocksteady, 
focused on Trent.
No, said Vance slowly, it is not. We
Isnt it true, said Trent loudly, that your dangerous criminal ran through 
Peaceforcer Heaven with no weapon more dangerous than a squirt gun filled with 
Complex 8-A?
And isnt it further true that Trent, when advised that the stolen Space Force 
vehicle he was in was about to be destroyed, immediately jettisoned Colonel 
Piers Webster from the spacecraft, and that Webster was then rescued by Space 
Force?
What news service are you with, young man? Vance stared at Trent.
Commissioner Vance, isnt it true that virtually without exception the damage 
which has been caused to the Peaceforcers has been caused by the Peaceforcers? 
Trent shouted to be heard over the growing noise from the newsdancers talking 
into their holocams. Better than half of them had their holo-cams focused on 
him. Specifically, by the man who gave the order to fire the North Bay missiles 
after having been told that it was not safe for him to do so? By you?
The glittering cyborg eyes did not move at all. From across the conference room 
Trent could see smoke curling up from the glove covering the laser embedded in 
Vances right fist.
Mohammed Vance said, Who are you?
Trent let the question hang for just an instant, and then said very softly 
indeed, to Vance and the assembled newsdancers, I sent you the rose, Vance.
There was sudden and complete silence.
Did you like it?
Vance took a step away from the podium, toward the crowd of newsdancers, toward 
Trent. I did not. Is it you, Trent?
Trent said into the hushed stillness, Yes.
Vance took a step off the platform, dropped to the ground. Newsdancers were 
fanning away from him as he walked toward Trent, flames dancing around his right 
hand, smoke wafting slowly upward in the gentle Lunar gravity.
Vance was thirty meters away; perhaps forty of the newsdancers were still 
blocking his way to Trent. Through the crowd Trent locked eyes with the huge 
cyborg, and said so quietly that it could not have been heard in less silent 
surroundings, Catch me if you can.
He took one step backward, into the corridor, and slapped the pressure pad to 
close the double doors. From a jumpsuit pocket he withdrew his squirt gun and 
shot Officer Stout in the face once. She crumpled in slow motion in the Lunar 
gravity, sporting a woefully surprised expression. Trent worked swiftly but 
without hurrying, did it as he had practiced; from his tool kit Trent took a 
small suction pump, placed it over the corridors pressure sensor and turned it 
on. The corridor sirens went off almost immediately; the door to the conference 
room locked with an audible snap. Trent jacked his handheld into the doorgrid 
and said aloud, Breached corridor at City Hall. Emergency seal in place. The 
words boomed out over the corridor intercom, through every public outspeaker in 
all of Luna City. Trent kicked off his shoes and undressed in the empty corridor 
with Officer Stouts still form, watching the door. Not five seconds had passed 
since the closing of the door. Trent had the jumpsuit off; underneath it he wore 
a pair of floral-print Hawaiian shorts and a black t-shirt. Vance must be having 
a time of it, getting newsdancers out of his way. Six seconds, seven
The door shuddered in its frame, buckled slightly. The doors dented outward 
once, twice, where they joined at the center, as the cyborg tried to force the 
doors apart. Trent bundled up the jumpsuit and tucked it into the tool kit, 
watching the door. This was the place where it all either came together or fell 
apart. If Vance managed to open that door it was all over.
A third and even stronger blow struck the door; the door frame actually rang 
like a bell.
Silence.
Trent put his shoes back on.
For the merest instant, a spot on the surface of the door glowed red, orange, 
approached white, and then faded. Trent grinned and said aloud, Sucker, pulled 
his handheld free of the doorgrid and hooked it to his belt, turned and walked 
away down the empty corridor without haste, leaving the empty tool kit behind 
with Officer Stout.
In his mind, he pictured it happening; the laser in Vances fist touching the 
door, as Vance attempted to cut through to get at Trent. The vacuum glue 
bursting into fierce flames almost instantly; the very efficient Lunar sprinkler 
system cutting in to douse the flames, and everything else in the conference 
room, with a fine mixture of water and fadeaway.
The corridor let out onto the only large plaza on A2; Trent glided down a ramp 
to A1. On A1, just before 8:30 a.m., there would normally be a couple of 
thousand people out on various errands. Not sixty seconds had passed since the 
false warning of a breach at City Hall; Trent could not see anyone, on all of 
A1, who was not either in a pressure suit or running like mad toward whatever 
they perceived as safety. A squad of Peaceforcers trotted across A1 on its way 
toward Luna City Hall. Trent did not allow himself to hesitate at all; he ran 
like everyone around him, ran with long bouncing strides to the Luna City 
transfer station, checked his p-suit from the public locker, paid for his ticket 
with untraceable hard SpaceFarer CU, and boarded the 8:30 monorail to Kepler.

Katrina Trudeau kept an underground four-room house just outside of the city of 
Kepler. In addition to being her official place of residence, it doubled as a 
pickup hospital for those clients who required surgery or other services which 
were not convenient to provide at Luna City.
Katrina sat beneath dimmed lights in a sunken, white rug-covered area of her 
living room, watching a recording of the news conference at Luna City, when 
Trent cycled through the airlock. She was wearing a long gray silk robe that was 
tied at the waist with a green sash. She wore nothing beneath it that Trent 
could see. Katrina smiled at him quickly, without saying anything, and went back 
to watching the recording while Trent stripped off his p-suit and rubbed it 
down.
Im ready.
Katrina glanced at him, patted a cushion on the floor next to her. I hope 
youre ready. Were going to need to do your voice box as well. After this In 
the holo, Trent was saying I sent you the rose, Vance. Katrina said, Command, 
holo off. I suppose you know how this ends?
Trent joined her, settled in to get comfortable. There was a fireplace in the 
wall next to them: a combination of holo, sound, and radiant heater. The effect 
was remarkably realistic; Trent would have hesitated to put his hand into the 
flame. Peaceforcers and newsdancers sprawled all over the place. The good guys 
win.
Youre impossible. Trent, she said, trying the name out for size. I liked you 
better when I thought you were Thomas.
I was safer for you when I was Thomas.
Why didnt you tell me who you were? If I hadnt checked the news Boards this 
morning
Trent shrugged. Normal caution. Id have told you when it seemed appropriate.
Katrina laughed, looking at him with amusement and some real degree of 
affection. I want an extra two thousand CU, Trent. For the added danger.
Trent said sincerely, I respect you too much to haggle. Katrina laughed again. 
Im sure you do. She glanced back at the empty holofield, as though it still 
held the image of the prone forms in the City Hall conference room. She stood. 
Come in back with me.
I thought you were never going to ask.

Katrina Trudeau said slowly, I have some reluctance to do this to you.
Lying on the long flat table, staring straight up at fluorescent white 
glowpaint, Trent said, Hell of a time to mention it. Why?
She looked undecided for a moment. There isit She chewed on her lower lip. 
Trent, youre perfect.
Trent said, Thank you.
I mean it, she protested. Ive been going through your X rays, the physical I 
ran on you the last time you were here. Trent, you have no flaws.
Trent said again, Thank you.
Katrina said gently, Youre not surprised.
Should I be?
Yes, you should. Indecision battled clearly behind the golden eyes. Youre so 
exquisiteif you were a painting youd be a masterpiece, Trent.
Trent sighed. Ask the question.
Im not prejudiced, she said. Its important you believe that. Im not.
You could just ask, you know. Itd save us both a lot of time.
Those questions they were asking at the news conferenceTrent, who designed 
you?
Looking directly up into her eyes, Trent said, Suzanne Montignet.
Doctor Montignet? Katrina Trudeau looked absolutely astounded. I studied 
under her. She
Was the best. Katrina, could we talk some other time?
The woman was very still for a moment, and then relaxed. Of course. I would 
really like to hear about it sometime.
Maybe sometime Ill tell you. Trent was silent then, while Katrina moved the 
machines into place around him.
Trent?
Yes?
Im going to put you under now. Itll take a few moments, and youll feel a bit 
disoriented before you go out. Just dont worry, and dont get tense; itll be 
okay.
Something cool brushed Trents arm. Katrina?
Yes, Trent?
Its not that I dont trust you.
She said patiently, Yes?
You notice my handhelds not here. My Image is not here.
So?
A wave of dizziness touched Trent. So, if anything goes wrong, if I dont get 
in touch with my Image after this, my Image is going to come get you. My Image, 
said Trent, somewhat blurrily, has replicant code in him. Even in the LIN I 
think hed last mm  long enough.
Katrina Trudeau leaned over Trents reclining form, and murmured in his ear, 
Its a suspicious world we live in, love. I wouldnt hurt you. Her voice grew 
very remote. How could I? Theres too little art in the world to begin with

There was a long emptiness.
 BOSS? HEY, BOSS?
It was like emerging from a deep and dark cavern into blazing daylight.
JOHNNY? JOHNNY JOHNNY, IS THAT YOU? Trent found himself sitting at the center of 
a great emptiness, watching pulsing slivers of light at the edges of the world.
BOSS, YOU HAVE TO LET ME THROUGH.
The form took shape immediately before Trent, a dark and hazy shape lacking form 
or definition. It was a hole in the midst of the glowing haziness. johnny 
johnnys correct, trent. YOU HAVE TO DO IT. BOSS, THERES AN IMAGE IN THE INSKIN 
ALREADY, AND IT WONT LET ME IN. YOU HAVE TO MAKE IT LET ME IN.
Trent sat in the pristine silence, thinking with a clarity that he had never 
possessed before. The Crystal Wind tugged at the edges of his awareness, begged 
to be let in. He did not know the program Johnny Johnny was talking about. He 
searched his own awareness looking for the rogue Image Johnny Johnny was 
referring to, and could not find it. The form standing in front of Trent said, 
trent, ive DONE EVERYTHING I CAN. SIMPLY BEING HERE WITH YOUR INSKIN FIGHTING 
SO HARD HAS DAMAGED ME WORSE THAN YOU MIGHT IMAGINE. I GOT JOHNNY IN FAR ENOUGH 
PAST YOUR DEFENSES SO THAT HE COULD TALK TO YOU. ITS UP TO YOU NOW. LET GO OF 
THE INSKIN; LET JOHNNY IN.
The form faded, vanished, and left Trent alone with Johnny Johnnys voice.
BOSS? THE IMAGE THATS SITTING IN YOUR INSKIN? BOSS, IT THINKS ITS YOU.
Trent opened his eyes.
He was lying in bed, with a warm weight snuggled around him. He got out of bed 
carefully, disentangling himself from Katrinas arms. He had to search to find 
the bathroom.
Inside the bathroom he switched on the lights, and then had to hunt again to 
find the control to turn on the mirror.
The mirror silvered into existence before him. The process of the mirrors 
appearance seemed very slow. He had never noticed that before.
He examined his appearance in the mirror, the face of an American Peaceforcer 
named Benny Gutierrez.
Dark hair and eyebrows, almost as dark as Denices. His nose was slightly larger 
than it had been before, and his cheekbones were higher and more visible. There 
was a faint cleft in his chin. His eyes were no longer pale blue; they were 
practically gray, almost without color. Katrina had done something, he was not 
quite sure what, to the curve of his jaw; it was straighter, more angular. It 
was a fairly handsome face, and made Trent look somewhat older; twenty-five or 
-six.
All of his scars were gone, every one. It made him feel curiously naked, unreal. 
His tattoo was still there, as Katrina had promised, but aside from the white 
rose his skin was brown all over.
Trent wasnt at all sure he liked it.
At least, the thought occurred to him, I dont have to worry about my tan 
anymore.
Trent turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom. His body felt 
odd, clumsy and slow-moving. He sat down at the edge of the bed, in the dark, 
and let his eyes close.
He was back in the glowing emptiness almost immediately.
Trent opened his eyes. Darkness. The sound of Katrina breathing in her sleep.
He closed his eyes again and went Inside.
BOSS?
HI, JOHNNY. YOURE BACK?
I THINK SO. HOW LONG WAS I GONE? BOSS, ITS BEEN ALMOST THREE WEEKS. THREE 
WEEKS. Trent considered that. ALL RIGHT.
JOHNNY, I THINK IVE MADE A MISTAKE.
NO KIDDING.
THAT PROGRAM THAT THINKS ITS MEJOHNNY, IT IS ME.
There was, by the standards of electronic intelligences, an incredibly long 
pause before Johnny Johnny replied. Trent found himself noticing Johnny Johnnys 
response time for the first time in his life. aw, hell, boss. youve been 
promising ME AN INSKIN FOR THE LONGEST TIME AND I WAS AFRAID THIS WAS GOING TO 
HAPPEN WHEN YOU STARTED TALKING ABOUT THAT GODDAMN ALMOST-AN-INSKIN NN-II IN 
THE FIRST PLACE. I
JOHNNY, STOP. WHO BROUGHT YOU IN TO ME?
BOSS, I DONT KNOW, I THINK HE WAS AN AI, EXCEPT HE WAS USING SOME OF THE SAME 
IMAGE ROUTINES I USE, SO MAYBE HE WAS A PLAYER. BOSS, I DONT KNOW. HE KNOWS A 
LOT ABOUT YOU, BOSS. AND BOSSTHE PLAYER I THOUGHT WAS CHASING ME AFTER I 
CRASHED THE PKF BOARDS IN CAPITOL CITY? REMEMBER? I THINK IT WAS HIM.
OKAY. WELL HUNT HIM DOWN WHEN WE HAVE OUR OTHER PROBLEMS RESOLVED. WHERE ARE 
YOU?
WHERE YOU LEFT ME, BOSS. THE LOCKER AT THE MONORAIL STATION. BOSS, DID YOU KNOW 
THEY TURN OFF RADIO PACKET INFONET ACCESS BETWEEN TWO AND FIVE A.M. EVERY NIGHT? 
IVE HAD TO SIT THERE WITH NOTHING TO DO, THREE HOURS A DAY EVERY DAY FOR THE 
LAST THREE WEEKS.
CAN YOU COME ACROSS?
There was another long silence. BOSS, I CAN TRY. BUT I TRIED BEFORE, AND YOU 
DIDNT LET ME.
Trent said, TRY AGAIN.
At first Trent thought nothing was happening. Then an oppressive weight seemed 
to descend upon him, an amorphous shape that settled over the glowing expanse of 
his consciousness like a shroud. He found himself tensing without meaning to, 
forced himself to relax, using the same biofeed-back techniques which had once, 
eons ago, allowed a simple boy named Trent to interpret the signals from a 
traceset.
The gloom deepened, and then a vast pain ripped through Trent, a silent flaring 
implosion of agony and Trent heard himself screaming as Johnny Johnny invaded, 
struck his unconscious barriers hard, and
merged.

Trent? It was Katrinas voice, concerned. The word seemed to drag across 
Trents awareness in slow motion. Trent?
The lights were on in her bedroom.
Trent felt himself turning to look at her, felt the individual movement of each 
muscle in his neck. A channel at the edge of his awareness vibrated with 
promise, with potential. In his mind Trent saw the channel grow, become a tunnel 
that he flowed down at the speed of light, the edges of Realtime racing by him, 
falling away from him as he expanded to encompass the Crystal Wind.
THIS, said Johnny Johnny-who-was-Trent, in a voice so silent that 
Trent-who-was-Trent could barely hear it, IS MUCH BETTER.
Katrinas voice was blurred and patterned, half lost in the growing, thundering 
crescendo of the Crystal Wind of information. How do you feel?
Trent continued turning toward her. His body moved with amazing slowness, a 
crude meat machine. A Russian ballerina whirled through the space inside his 
skull, half obscured the face of the woman in front of him. Russian = dancing 
bears. I know a dancing bear named Boris, Trent heard himself explaining to 
Katrina earnestly, and a very good joke, would you like to hear it? Ask 
somebody to pick a number between one and ten. Then, run away.
He stood unsteadily. There were 9,542 Lunar InfoNet Boards pouring into him, 45 
microwave channels carrying data extracted from Earths InfoNet. The stock 
market was up five points and a flood in Australia had killed six hundred 
people, the Green Bay Packers were being beaten badly by the Beijing Bears and a 
Johnny Reb bomb in Iowa had detonated prematurely without killing anybody. The 
worlds greatest sensualist, Gregory Selstrom, and the worlds most popular 
sensable actor, Gregory Selstroms elder brother Adam Selstrom, had agreed to 
work together in Gregory Selstroms current production; it would, amazingly 
enough, be the first time the two had collaborated.
Trent stumbled once, and Katrina was there, steadying him. A stand-up comic with 
a cigarette lighter in his hand said, And in closing, Id like to set myself on 
fire for youbut that would hurt. Katrina made no attempt to stop Trent as he 
walked out into the living room and then stood motionless in the middle of the 
room, sightless eyes fixed upon his pressure suit. An artificial Christmas tree 
was erected just to one side of the pressure suit rack, the trees lights 
blinking red and blue and green, yellow and orange and white. On one of the 
lines from Earth three beautiful children were telling a newsdancer that all 
they wanted for Christmas was world peace. In Beijing a riot resulted in 
twenty-three deaths by trampling, including one couple who had been celebrating 
their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. There were half a dozen presents beneath 
the tree, wrapped in silver and gold foil. This is what they always meant, 
Trent said aloud. When he spoke the words he heard them echo. the crystal wind 
is THE STORM, AND THE STORM IS DATA, AND THE DATA IS life. Where are my 
clothes?
Trent heard the worry in her voice when she answered him. Youre not ready to 
leave yet, Trent. Youre not
Dont worry, Katrina. Im just going to do whats necessary. That part of 
Trent which had once been Johnny Johnny added, You know, Ive never seen a 
Christmas tree before, Ive never seen colors before. You humans, he whispered 
to Katrina, you are such marvelous machines.
Trent, she said desperately, I cant let you leave like this!
The numbers danced into Trents awareness, out again. Its December 7, 2069, 
2:30 a.m. One hundred and twenty-eight years ago today the Japanese bombed Pearl 
Harbor and dragged the United States into World War II. And with each passing 
year it is going to seem more quaint, the little tin airplanes bombing the 
sleepy iron giants. My god, said Trent a moment later, staring at Katrina, I 
can see the field I first read that line on. Its hanging there in the back of 
my head; Im thirteen, and the Temple Dragons have just adopted me.
Trent, its going to take time before its safe for you to leave and
Its Friday, said Trent abruptly. On Sunday Im supposed to be in Jackson 
Town Free Luna, on Farside. To meet a woman named Callia who came all the way 
from Earth just to work with me. He smiled at her with slow delight; the lights 
from the Christmas tree were reflected in her eyes, dancing like fireflies on 
the gold-green irises. But if you wanted to go back to bed, I could be talked 
into being late.




9-
 ^  
Farside is, essentially, three cities in three craters. The Lunar Bureau of the 
United Nations Peace Keeping Force DataWatchthat is its full and complete 
nameis a base located at the crater Jules Verne. The only significant 
scientific establishment on Farside is Zvezdagrad at Tsiolkovsky Crater, where 
astronomers from all over the System probe into far reaches of the sky. Jackson 
Town Free Luna completes what is very nearly an equilateral triangle; between 
them the three cities hold some eighty percent of the population of Farside.
Jackson Town was more like an Earthside city than anything else Trent had seen 
on Luna. It was a domed city, one of the few on Luna. At not quite three 
kilometers in diameter, it was not as large as the dome at Luna City, but was 
larger than most of the other domed cities. It felt larger than Luna City to 
Trent; most of the surface was given over to greenery of one sort or another, 
ranging from flat-out wilderness to sculptured parklands.
Trent arrived in Jackson Town in the midst of two nights, the real Lunar night 
and the artificial night derived from Earths twenty-four-hour cycle. The armed 
girl on duty at the transfer station when Trents semiballistic arrived was 
barely able to keep awake long enough to verify that Trent was expected, approve 
him for entry and check him through. Trent kept to the marked paths, wandering 
through the dark wilderness without hurry, moving underneath the impossibly thin 
trees, through the shrubbery and the flowers that reached his chest. His 
handheld was clipped at his belt, and it bounced every few steps against the 
side of his thigh. A single ten-terabyte infochip inside the handheld 
safeguarded the only record anyone in the world had of Trents original facial 
bone structure and voice print.
It was dim inside the dome; nighttime on Farside is darker than anything on 
Earth itself ever gets. Only the very faint starlight shone down on the 
terraformed landscape. There were airlocks leading beneath ground every thirty 
meters or so; even in the event of a catastrophic failure of the dome, Trent 
thought it likely he would reach shelter in time.
The paths twisted and curved throughout the entire upper level, moving toward 
and then away from the very center of the dome, where Trent wished to go. Trent 
was in no hurry at all; he expected to have to wait out the night in the Temple 
of Eris until his contact returned to the Temple to greet him. He wandered down 
the pathways, and Johnny Johnnys ghostly fading voice, in the back of his 
skull, said, boss, im going to try something new. It happened slowly, the world 
flaring and brightening around Trent as though dawn were arriving. The image 
processing Johnny Johnny was performing went slowly at first, and then more 
quickly as Johnny Johnny found out what did and did not work; the edges of 
everything around Trent became very sharp, as the images his retinae recorded 
were subjected to a fast Fourier transform. The surfaces of things speckled, 
appeared for a moment in garish unreal colors, and then settled into a grainy 
black and white image. The world steadied around Trent for just an instant, and 
then, from up ahead on the path, came the first hint of illumination from the 
Temple of Eris. Trent glided slowly through the inky darkness, unable even to be 
amazed at how very strange his world had become in the days since Emile Garons 
death.
Light blazed over him in glaring colors.
The exterior of the Temple of Eris looked nothing like Reverend Andys Temple; 
it was a gold and silver octagonal building, limned in black marble, surrounded 
by yellow floodlamps all around its base. It reached up two stories to touch the 
dome itself and it was the brightest object in the world, the brightest thing 
Trent had ever seen, more radiant than the sun itself. He walked slowly around 
the Temple, marveling as he had never marveled before at anything and then 
suddenly, without any warning at all, Trents vision reverted to normalcy.
For the merest instant he felt a deep, aching regret at the loss of the vision, 
and then he found the entrance, and went inside.
Four rows of pews, of some material that was not wood but had been made to 
resemble burnished walnut, expanded outward in concentric rings from the central 
circle where the Reverend would give sermons on Sundays and Wednesdays. There 
was no altar, which did not surprise Trent; some Temples had them, others did 
not. A fractured rainbow, rose and pale blue with a flash of green, fell from a 
series of stained-glass windows positioned high on the eight inner walls.
There was a woman praying at the center of the circle.
Trent walked forward slowly, to the edge of the circle, and sat down in lotus 
facing the praying woman. There was a small satchel sitting on one of the pews 
behind her. Weapons surrounded the woman; an autoshot lay on the Temple floor 
immediately to her left, a sheathed knife to her right, and a hand weapon that 
was either laser or maser immediately before her. Her eyes were closed, her head 
bowed. Her hands were clenched together just beneath her chin, white with 
tension. She knelt in the most uncomfortable position Trent could imagine, knees 
together, back and thighs completely rigid from the knees up. Her hair was even 
shorter than Trents own, a soft blond brush cut only five centimeters long. She 
was barefoot, wearing nothing but the bottom half of a powder-blue gi, loosely 
tied at her waist with a black belt. She was clearly Earth-born; the smooth, 
swimmers muscles in her back and shoulders were trembling slightly, and in the 
low gravity random trickles of sweat moved languidly across her upper torso. Her 
nipples were erect, her breasts shiny with perspiration. Trent sat in silent 
fascination, watching her breathe. She breathed deeply, in the very long, very 
slow breaths that are usually the result of training.
Time passed. The woman did not move except for the rhythmic rise and fall of her 
chest. Trent watched her, trying to match his own breathing to hers. His time 
sense was still behaving oddly; sometimes it seemed to him that he was taking so 
long between breaths that he would die if he did not breathe more quickly. He 
was aware of individual muscles moving, of the sound of his own heartbeat.
He did not speak.
After some unmeasured time, her eyes opened. She looked right at Trent, locked 
eyes with him. Her irises were exactly the same color as Denices. Her voice was 
soft as silk, American in accent. Youre late. She sagged suddenly, went limp 
and sat back on her heels and took a long, shuddering breath. When she looked 
back up at Trent again, who had not moved at all, she was smiling, an odd, 
gentle, not quite impersonal smile. Thank you. Im usually too busy to go to 
Temple. Today was good for me.
Today? She did not reply and Trent said, Youve been here sinceI was 
supposed to be here at ten oclock this morning. Thats almost fourteen hours 
ago.
She was still smiling at him. Yes.
You are Callia Sierran?
Yes. And youre Trent the Uncatchable.
Trent the what?
You havent been auditing the Boards?
No. Ive beenbusy.
Its what the newsdancers have been calling you.
The instant she said it, Trent knew it was true. The thought triggered the 
whirlwind of the Crystal Wind, a cascade he could not control at all, a blurred 
and roaring tumble of images and sounds and written words; Systemwide, in the 
last month, the word pattern Trent the Uncatchable had been used some 23,000 
times. Slow delight blossomed within Trent; he sat silently while the data 
washed over him and through him, sat almost paralyzed until the moment had 
passed. To Callia Sierran it must have appeared as the merest instants 
hesitation before his reply. They have sown the wind, Trent heard himself 
saying, and they shall reap the whirlwind.
Her smile grew even wider. Yes, said Callia Sierran. They shall.
Callia sat resting for a while after that. Trent waited patiently. After several 
minutes she seemed almost rested. Her breathing had gentled, grown more shallow. 
She stood and removed the bottom half of her gi and dried herself with a towel 
from the satchel on the pew behind her, unaware or else uncaring of what effect 
she might have on Trent. She redressed in the blue gi, top and bottoms, and a 
pair of gray running shoes without socks, and began talking as she dressed. 
Right now it looks like you, myself, my brother Lan, and Yevgeni Sergei 
Korimok. She removed a holster from the satchel, tied it down on her right 
thigh. The knife went back in the satchel. Lan does our demolition. Hes my 
brother, and hes young, so you may not trust my objectivity, but hes really 
very good at it. A bit impulsive, which well need to watch for, but reliable. 
He follows orders.
Trent nodded. Okay.
Im security. She picked up the hand weapon, checked the charge cartridge and 
bolstered it. I spend nine months a year on Earth for toning, three in Luna. I 
move well in Lunar gravity and I have muscles most Lunar residents, men 
included, cant match. She glanced at Trent speculatively. Not counting you, I 
think. If things blow up on us, I handle it if I can. I can use almost any 
energy weapon or slug-thrower. I have a second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, 
a fourth in shotokan. Im good with a wide variety of edged weapons. Im checked 
out on pressure-suit combat, both the standard soft suits and powered 
scalesuits. She slung the satchel over her right shoulder, carrying the 
autoshot in her right hand. Yevgenis a native loonie, U.N. territory, Callia 
continued, sitting down on a pew facing Trent. And Syndic on top of that, and 
especially given that youre an American you dont want to get him started on 
how the Russians have been treated by the Unification. But Domino vouches for 
him, and thats good enough for me. He does, for a fact, have contacts all over 
the place, nearside and far, Free Luna and United Nations both. Hes going to be 
doing most of the public contact we need done. She smiled at him again, that 
oddly beatific smile. And then theres you. I dont know what youre here for.
The comment startled Trent. You dont know?
She shook her head, a quick efficient back and forth motion. No. Domino said 
you would tell us. She told me we were hitting the Peaceforcers, and that you 
would tell us the rest; that was enough.
You seem to trust Domino a lot.
I trust many people. Trent She hesitated, and it struck Trent that it was the 
first time she had addressed him by his name. Isnt there anyone you trust 
completely? Who you have faith in?
Trent did not even have to think about his answer. A girl I know on Earth. Her 
name wouldnt mean anything to you.
Then you understand, Callia said simply. If Domino told me my eyes were blue, 
I would assume that they had changed color since the last time I looked in a 
mirror.
Trent nodded thoughtfully. Callia? May I ask you a question?
You can ask me anything. My life is a public Board, Trent.
Youre a member of the Erisian Claw.
Callia did not even blink. Of course. She seemed, to Trent, somewhat 
surprised. Is that a problem?
Youve promised your life to the overthrow of the Unification.
Yes, she said serenely.
Trent said very slowly, Ive never known anyone in the Claw, but one of my 
closest friends is Reverend of a Temple in New York. Callia, are you Erisian 
first, or Claw first?
Callia Sierran shook her head. Thats a question that has no meaning, Trent.
The Erisian Temples preach that life is sacred, Callia.
The Claw believes the same, Trent. Her gaze did not waver. Our lives as much 
so as those of our enemies. When our lives are threatened by our enemiesand 
they are, every daywe do what we must.
I need a promise from you, Callia.
The woman said instantly, Done.
You dont want to know what it is?
I would like to, yes.
Trent shook his head, grinning despite himself. All right. You cant kill 
anyone on this job. Not even Peaceforcers.
For the briefest instant he thought she was going to argue, and then she nodded 
once. I will do as you say. So will Lan. I cant speak for Yevgeni. She paused 
and then said, Lan will want to know why we are not to kill Peaceforcers.
Trent sat in lotus, studying something he had never seen before in his life. 
But it doesnt matter to you?
It matters to me, yes. Callia Sierran shrugged, and said, But not as much as 
doing what Domino has told me to do.
Which is?
Domino, said Callia Sierran, told me to do whatever you told me to do.




10-
 ^  
Domino had arranged for them to take over a suite of five rooms at a friendly 
hotel outside the Jackson Town dome. Trent wandered through the rooms briefly: a 
central room with a small kitchenette attached, with a window overlooking the 
Jackson Town dome; four bedrooms, one for Trent, one for Callia and her brother, 
one for Yevgeni Sergei Korimok
and one for the seven bodies.
Callia showed Trent the room that they had saved for him, said a quiet good 
night, and went to the room she shared with her brother.

Trent opened his eyes to cool, bright yellow sunpaint and the smell of good 
coffee.
The room was large, with a writing desk and chair and a bed. A closed door 
concealed the rooms small shower. There was a systerm at the desk, turned off. 
The two suitcases Trent had left aboard the rented semiballistic had been put 
next to the desk.
The boy sat at the foot of Trents bed, wearing a brown robe which had seen 
better days and drinking from a bulb of coffee. His clear blue eyes were fixed 
on Trent, gaze steady and unblinking. He was sixteen or seventeen and slim, with 
long brown hair bound in a ponytail, and had either just depilated his facial 
hair or had never needed to in his life.
He smiled at Trent. Good morning.
Good morning.
You sleep pretty hard.
Trent sat up in bed, slowly. At 3:38 a.m. you stood in the doorway for 
twenty-two seconds, turned and left. At 6:12 you came in and sat in the chair 
for four minutes and eight seconds. At 9:05 you came in again, dropped my 
luggage next to the desk, stood at the foot of the bed and mumbled a sentence 
which included the word lazy, and left. Its now 9:22, and youve been sitting 
at the foot of the bed for not quite three minutes.
The boy blinked. How do you know that?
Trent said, I dont sleep very hard. Youre Lan Sierran?
Yeah. Lan grinned suddenly. Got it. Youre a Player and you have an inskin 
monitoring your auditory nerve.
Trent looked at Lan Sierran thoughtfully. Good guess. Excuse me. He got out of 
the bed and went to take a shower. He did not hurry. When he came back out 
again, one towel around his waist, drying his hair with another, Lan was still 
there, reading from the holofield of an InfoNet handheld.
A second bulb, still sealed, had appeared on the end table by the bed. Coffee, 
said Lan, without looking up at Trent. With cream, no sugar. This place has its 
own kitchen. He did look up then. Ive never been in hotel rooms before that 
had their own private kitchen attached. Domino told me you said you didnt want 
room service, not even waitbots.
I said that, yes. Are Callia and Sieur Korimok here?
Nope. Went to Jackson Town. Yevs going to buy me and Callia scalesuits. Yev is 
a big believer in scalesuits.
The memory popped up so fast and strong that for a moment it was as though 
Nathan were there in the room with him. A friend of mine, said Trent, said 
that scalesuits were disasters waiting to happen. Trent opened one of his 
suitcases, took out a pair of black cotton slacks and a long-sleeved gray shirt 
and put them on. Lan watched him dress with unabashed interest; Trent decided 
against an earring.
You have nice muscles. You dont see that on the Moon very much. Except on 
Peaceforcers, Lan amended. But thats regs for them, they have to stay in 
shape so they can be sent back to Earth at the end of their tour. He shrugged. 
I dont sleep with Peaceforcers.
I hope not, said Trent mildly. He settled on the bed in front of Lan and 
twisted the ring at the neck of the coffee bulb. He sipped at the coffee.
Lan watched him. You like it?
Trent blinked. Yes. He smelled the coffee. What is this? Nothing he had 
drunk since hed been on Luna had come close to tasting like real coffee.
Lan nodded. I hardly ever drink coffee myself. Caffeines bad for you. And it 
doesnt taste as good as orange juice or tea. Or milk. But Booker Jamethon said 
you were a coffee junkie so we brought two kilos of S&W Colombian up with us 
when Domino told us to come.
Trent glanced at the boy sharply. You spoke to Booker?
Not me. Callia. Domino works with the Syndic a lot, she has to. Lan shook his 
head. When Callia found out we were going to work with you she researched. 
Shes good at that, but even so she didnt get a lot. You have a lot of friends, 
but we left Earth before thehe grinnednews conference, while the 
Peaceforcers werent absolutely certain still if you were alive or not. So we 
couldnt very well wander around asking people what sorts of things you wanted 
from home. Sieur Jamethon said you were a coffee junkie, and a Brother Andrew 
at the Flushing Street Temple told Callia you liked S&W Colombian. Nobody else 
talked to her very much.
Trent nodded slowly. Good. Thats good to hear.
So anyhow, Lan continued, what are we doing here?
Were going to steal the LINK.
Lan Sierran said without any hesitation at all, Okay. Im supposed to blow 
something up?
At one point, yes.
What is it?
A Peaceforcer troop transport rolligon. The boy grinned broadly. Great.
We are not, said Trent patiently, going to kill anybody.
The grin vanished. Youre kidding.
Im not.
Not anybody?
Nobody.
Lan looked vaguely distressed. Youre going to blow up a Peaceforcer troop 
transport, he said, without killing anybody?
Exactly.
The boy thought about it for a long moment. But whats the point?

Later that evening the four of them sat in the dark with a glowing holograph in 
the center of the table. The holograph showed a map of Farside, with the 
triangle of Jackson Town, Zvezdagrad, and Jules Verne. A dotted red line ran 
from Zvezdagrad toward the crater Jules Verne; there was a big blue X where the 
line entered a series of low hills, just before the line actually touched Verne 
Crater.
Everybody has summaries? Yes? Trent looked around the table: Lan looked bored, 
Korimok was quietly following him, and Callia listened intently, as though 
worried she might miss some subtle nuance. Trent smiled at Lan. Lets recap. On 
December twenty-second a man named Benny Gutierrez is scheduled to ship up to 
Luna City. Gutierrez is a webdancer, and from what Ive been able to learn about 
him, a fairly good one. On January third hes scheduled to report for duty at 
the Lunar DataWatch base at Jules Verne. SOP for PKF personnel transfers of this 
kind goes this way:
Gutierrez isnt important enough to come in via semiballistic. In a way thats 
unfortunate; hed probably be alone, or with one other passenger at most, and 
itd make taking his place a lot easier. Trent shrugged. Win a few, lose a 
few. At any rate, hes scheduled to arrive at Tsiolkovsky with five other 
DataWatch Peaceforcers on the monorail from Luna City. From there they rolligon 
to Jules Verne.
Gutierrez is ideal for several reasons. Hes American, as I am. He speaks 
French with an accent, as I do. Slightly different accent, but its unlikely the 
PKF at Verne will know that. He has a radio packet inskin, as I do. Its not the 
same model, but theyd have to do a complete workup on me to show that 
conclusively, and if they get that suspicious Im blown anyhow. Hes new to 
Luna, new to the PKF. Best data I have on him says the only other Peaceforcers 
hes likely to know on the entire planet are the ones in the rolligon with him 
when he leaves Zvezdagrad.
Trent had found himself instantly at ease with Yevgeni Sergei Korimok; the tall 
pale loonie was pure Syndic, professional and detached where the work was 
concerned. Therefore, Korimok said, in a high quiet voice that seemed 
perfectly in keeping with his demeanor, the Peaceforcers in the rolligon with 
Sieur Gutierrez must not reach Jules Verne.
Now how the slithy hell are we going to do that, said Lan softly, leaning 
across the table to stare at Trent, without killing them?
Trent stared through the gloom at the boy. I have bodies coming to stand in for 
the Peaceforcers wholl be on the rolligon. Weve got good med records on the 
Peaceforcers wholl be with Gutierrez; the biosculptor who did me agreed to take 
five corpses, men who died of natural causes, and do dental work on them so 
theyll match the dental records of the five Peaceforcers coming in with 
Gutierrez. We have two more corpses, a man and a woman, to take the place of 
whoever ends up driving the rolligon. Theres no way to make a good guess about 
that; any of literally dozens of Peaceforcers could draw that particular duty, 
male or female. There arent many female PKF at Jules Verne, only about ten 
percent of the total complement, but its a possibility to plan for. Whether 
its a man or a woman driving the rolligon we have a body to substitute. We 
wont have that persons dental records, but if we sufficiently damage the body 
we substitute for the driver then we wont need them.
Korimok nodded slowly. So this gets you in, yes?
Yes.
It was Callia who said, How, then, are you going to get out?
Trent told them.
There was a hushed silence when he was finished.
Lan said, Thats crazy. Youre just going to get yourself killed.
Maybe.
Callia stared at Trent. Trent, hes right.
Its a risk, Trent agreed. But not an impossible one.
Yevgeni Sergei smiled thinly. A problem with so many young people, I have seen. 
This desire to be a hero.
A hero, said Trent, is someone who knows when to run away.
Everybody was staring at Trent now, absolutely everybody in the room.
I, Trent proclaimed, am a hero.

Three bodies arrived in stasis fields the next morning.
At the hills to the west of Jules Verne, Trent sat alone in Nathan Dark Clouds 
chameleon. He had parked the chameleon just north and above the ravine where the 
Peaceforcer rolligons passed on their way to the DataWatch base at Jules Verne.
Six hours. At 10:12 a.m. Capitol City time a single rolligon crept through the 
Lunar night, twenty meters beneath Trent and forty away, headlamps sending 
quarter-million-candle-power beams of pure white light out into the Lunar night.
Trent sat almost motionless, breathing deeply and very slowly.
Part of him watched.
Most of him was elsewhere.
Johnny Johnny was almost gone; Trent had very little impression left of his 
Image as something separate from himself. Johnny Johnnys voice came less 
frequently now, as Trent assimilated the program that had once been his Image. 
There was no sadness in it, for it was a completion, not an ending. The person 
who took shape in the darkness, in a place as remote as possible from the 
scouring storm of data that Players call the Crystal Wind, was far greater than 
the sum of his parts.
At 12:20 exactly a caravan of four rolligons passed. At 12:36 another rolligon 
passed, and then nothing until 3:07, when a pair came by together.
At four oclock that afternoon the man who had once been Trent, and once been 
Johnny Johnny, turned the engine on and headed back to Jackson Town.

The mass driver at Jackson Town stretches three and a half kilometers in a 
series of superconducting magnets spaced consecutively further apart. The 
separation at the catapult head is only forty meters; at the far end it has 
stretched to seventy-five. Lunar orbital velocity is only 1.6 kilometers per 
second, but even so loads boosted from Jackson Town must undergo upward of one 
hundred gravities acceleration in the course of launch.
Trent spent most of December 22, the Saturday morning before Christmas, in the 
control booth from which the Jackson Town catapult was run, watching as loads 
were boosted into orbit. The booth was small, just barely large enough for 
Trent, Yevgeni, and the woman running the mass driver.
Trent was not introduced to the woman, a small Asian woman with a blue-silver 
skin dye and pale gold hair who was so delicate that if it had not been for her 
shortnessabout 165 centimetersTrent might have pegged her for a loonie.
He watched her work for several hours without interfering. He watched carefully, 
very carefully, recording into his inskin all the while.
Yevgeni remarked, dryly, that Trent was acting as though his life depended on 
understanding how the catapult was run.
Trent did not reply.
The work was reasonably straightforward on her end. A group of men in 
scalesuits, without any sort of heavy moving equipment, would load a single 
capsule at the catapult head, placing the capsule in a cradlelike contraption 
that looked like half of an egg shell. The egg shell sat some thirty meters back 
from the first magnet, and was completely open at the end facing the first 
magnet. Trent watched better than a dozen launches, and they never varied. The 
egg shell was attached to a sixty-meter-long maglev rail, and each launch began 
with the egg lifting about twenty centimeters above the rail, a lift that was 
just barely visible from the control booth, and then accelerating toward the 
first ring. At the end of sixty meters the egg shell slammed into a pair of long 
vertical bars which prevented it, but not its load, from continuing any further. 
The capsule continued on into the first magnet, moving so quickly now that Trent 
could barely see it
and literally vanished as the magnets grabbed it at a hundred gravities.
After fourteen consecutive launches the crew broke for lunch. The Asian woman 
did not even get out of her chair; she simply blinked once, took her traceset 
off, and smiled at Trent. Her voice surprised him; it reminded him instantly, 
both in sound and choice of words, of Jodi Jodi. What do you think? Yev says 
youre a webdancer, you could do what I do. Want a job?
Trent shook his head and smiled back at her. Forgive me, but just what do you 
do?
Oh. She looked startled. I guess its not very obvious from watching me sit 
there like a juice junkie? I monitor. Before every launch I run diagnostics and 
do a go-nogo for every ring on the entire catapult, then the same thing for the 
maglev rail the swatter runs on, then for the release mech on the swatter 
itself.
The swatter is the egg-shaped thing?
Yes. Thats basically what it does, you see. Sort of swats the load so that 
its moving even and steady when the first ring grabs it. I can abort the launch 
at any time up to the point where the first ring grabs the load. After that its 
gone.
How long have you been on the job?
Two years, a couple months.
Ever had to abort a launch?
I delay launches maybe one every six weeks or so, because the superconductor 
fields are fluctuating, the swatter rode rough on the prior launch, a couple 
other reasons. I only had to attempt an abort after the swatter started moving 
one time. We lost power on a six-hundred-meter section of the catapult. She 
shrugged. Didnt catch it in time. You know what the odds are against a load 
taking out a ring thats maybe five meters wide? When the rings are separated by 
an average of sixty meters?
Eight point five percent.
The woman glanced sharply at Trent. We ended up on the short end of the stick. 
Lost a ring.
Trent nodded. What would happen if you tried to launch something without using 
the swatter?
You mean a free load?
I suppose thats what I mean.
The woman blinked, looked interested for the first time. Good question. Ive 
never heard of anyone trying it; catapult design is pretty standardized aside 
from things like length and boost. I think youd lose the load. And maybe part 
of the catapult as well. The load needs to be kept stable in the early part of 
the launch; thats the place where youre likeliest to have enough wobble that 
youd lose it. Its more important on the midget here than it is on longer 
catapults, she added. Over at the Luna City catapult youre only pulling three 
gees, and a miscalc early on probably wouldnt take the catapult down. Even at 
the Verne catapult your top boost is only around nine or ten gees. Not much 
danger of knocking out one of the catapult rings with a missed load. Here its 
something to watch for.
Trent nodded. If you were going to launch a free load, how would you go about 
it?
I wouldnt. Its a stupid idea.
So people keep telling me. But suppose you couldnt use the swatter and you had 
to.
Well The woman hesitated, obviously reluctant. Its still a stupid idea; Id 
wait until the swatter was repaired. But if I had to, Id rig something to 
bounce the load, hmm She paused. A single superconducting ring is about 
twenty-five meters in diameter. Id want to get the load at least fifteen meters 
above the ground, maybe five meters in front of the first ring, and then cycle 
the catapult while the load was still rising. The load would probably crash, but 
the catapult would survive. I think.

Elsewhere on Luna that Saturday, a Peaceforcer webdancer named Benny Gutierrez 
arrived at Luna City.

There was a message waiting for Trent at the hotel when he returned.
Passage arranged for January 4, 9:00 a.m. to 4 p.m.; the SpaceFarer ship 
Vatsayama.
Good luck.
Felix KHin.

On Monday, Christmas Eve, Lan and Callia went into Jackson Town for midnight 
mass. The Temples of Eris were an outgrowth of Christianity, and though the 
birth of Jesus Christ was not the primary religious observance of the Temples, 
it was still important. Yevgeni went to bed early, and Trent sat alone in his 
hotel room, letting the Crystal Wind pour through him, retaining what data 
called attention to itself, letting the rest pass by.
With a portion of his attention he composed a short letter for Denice.
Dear Denice,
You will know, by the time you receive this, if the job I am about to attempt 
has succeeded. The letter will take a while to reach you, for it is going to be 
sent Federal Express and hand-delivered; I have been away from Earths InfoNet 
long enough now that I cannot be sure that any of my old mail accounts are still 
secure from the DataWatch. Now that the PKF knows that I am alive its not safe 
for me to try calling you again.
If you and I are both still here in February, perhaps we can try again. Luna 
wont work now, not even Free Luna, but Mars or one of the Belt CityStates are 
still possibilities. Im sorry that I have to do thisI know it will be harder 
for you no matter how it turns outbut I do have to do it. No choice.
None.
I think of you often.
No.
Make that constantly. I do love you.
Trent

Just after two oclock, early on the morning of December twenty-fifth, there was 
a knock on Trents door.
Trent sat on the bed, cross-legged in the dark. Come in.
The lights came up as Lan entered, still dressed in the dove-gray suit he had 
worn to Temple, and sat carefully, back straight, at the foot of Trents bed. 
His hair had been styled, swept straight back from his face and tied in the 
neatest ponytail Trent had seen on Lan since he had known the boy.
He held a green-bowed, gold-foil-wrapped present in both hands.
Merry Christmas, Trent.
Merry Christmas, Lan.
I brought you a present.
Trent nodded. I see. I dont have one for you.
I didnt think you would. He handed the box to Trent, and Trent turned it over 
in his hands. Go ahead and open it.
Trent untied the emerald bow and unwrapped the foil from the box without tearing 
it. The box itself, of hand-carved redwood, was about sixty centimeters long, 
twenty wide and twenty deep. It was hinged, with a small silver stud which Trent 
pressed to open it. The redwood box was inlaid with black velvet, and on the 
velvet lining sat a small pistol completely unlike anything Trent had ever seen 
before. Trent removed it and looked it over with clinical curiosity. It was 
small enough to be used as a hideaway, but the barrels aperture was 
ridiculously small, smaller than that of a pellet gun. The barrel itself was 
extremely thick, about three times the size of a .22 revolver. He placed it back 
in the box and said, Thank you very much, Lan. What is it?
The boy grinned at Trent. Hideaway for either pressurized or unpressurized 
environments. Its basically a small mass driver, a rail gun crammed into a 
twelve-centimeter barrel. Its only .15 caliber, but at top boost the pellet 
develops four thousand meters per second velocity leaving the barrel. You can 
drop the boost for target shooting, getting used to the gun, and then kick it up 
for serious work. At top boost you can knock over a PKF Elite whos running 
toward you. You probably wont kill him, but thats almost impossible anyhow. 
Lan paused. Unless you throw him off a spacescraper.
Trent closed the box, put it on the end table by the bed. He fell, said Trent 
evenly.
Lan sighed. I know, he said after a moment. I saw the Peaceforcer recording 
of it. But seeing theyre claiming you killed him, you might as well take credit 
for it.
Thank you for the gun, Lan. I appreciate the thought behind it.
But not the gift itself. Lan closed his eyes briefly, sat utterly still for a 
moment in the pale gray suit. He opened his eyes again. Trent?
Yes?
Why do we keep not getting along? Im trying to like you.
The words were spoken with such complete honesty that for a moment Trent could 
not find the correct answer for the boy. I know you are I have a friend, Lan, 
named Reverend Andy. He preaches at the Flushing Street Temple in New York. He 
told me once that the problem with the Claw isnt that theyre not sincere, but 
that theyre a part of the problem theyre trying to solve. When the Unification 
War ended, Lan, the Peace Keeping Forces were soldiers. They werent police, 
they werent DataWatch, they werent the secret service theyve become today. 
The PKF Elite exists today, Lan, because the Claw and the Johnny Rebs and half a 
dozen other organizations like them brought it into existence.
Lan said abruptly, Does Callia know you feel this way?
I doubt it. She knows I dont want any killing; its one of the first things we 
talked about. Beyond that, no, I havent talked to her much.
Ive seen you watching her, said Lan. He looked straight at Trent. If you 
wanted to sleep with her, she would.
I thought so.
You do want to?
Trent said simply, Yes.
Lan nodded very deliberately, thinking. Then why dont you ask her?
Because of a question I dont know the answer to.
Whats the question?
Lan, shes dedicated. To the Claw, to the overthrow of the Unification.
Lan nodded again. So?
Do you think she would sleep with me because she wanted to, or because she 
thought it was the correct thing to do to keep me focused on the work?
Callia, said Lan simply, always does whats correct.
Trent shook his head. Sometimes thats not the correct thing to do. Ifind her 
very attractive. In several ways. But I refuse to be a part of her job. Id 
sleep with her if it was what she wanted for herself. But I think shes 
forgotten how to think about herself. And that I dont find attractive. Its 
scary.
Lan looked down at the bed, at the expanse of bed cover that stretched between 
them. Youre a very judgmental person, Trent. I really dont like it very 
much.
All that Ive said to you is that killing is wrong. How does this offend you?
Trent, sometimes its not wrong, Lan said sincerely. Sometimes its the best 
thing you can do. SomeoneI cant tell you her name, but shes very important in 
the Clawshe took Callia and me in when we were young, after our mother died and 
our dad got taken into Public Labor. Callia wanted to join the Johnny Rebsits 
a lot more popular in America than the Clawbut this person recruited us into 
the Claw instead. Trent, she taught us a lot, that were responsible for both 
what we do and what we dont do. One of the things she taught us was that an 
ideal thats worth dying for is worth killing for. When Sarah Almundsen wrote 
the Statement of Principles she couldnt have envisioned the Unification turning 
into what it is today: the Public Labor work camps, the PKF firing squads. If 
she was alive today, Trent, shed be with us. If you credit her with the 
Unification then you must also credit her with the deaths that followed from it; 
she killed more people than any other single human in all of history. And Sarah 
Almundsens a hero, Trent. I really believe that.
Trent took a very slow breath, held it, exhaled. He sat looking at Lan Sierran, 
without speaking, simply looking.
Lan waited.
You and your sister, Trent whispered, wandered out into the world, two nice 
young people without a thought in your heads. And somebody whose name you wont 
tell me took you and filled you with eloquent, nicely dressed ideas that 
translate into actions as horrifying and as evil as anything the Unification has 
ever done. Lan, killing is wrong. Its always wrong.
Lan Sierran bit his lip. I knew, he said after a moment, that you were a 
thief. I knew that before we left Earth. But I knew you killed a Peaceforcer 
Elite, I knew the Peaceforcers were saying youd tried to kill people at 
Spacebase One.
Trent shook his head. Lan, I didnt. I didnt kill anyone. I didnt try to.
I believe you. I hoped, said Lan slowly, seriously, that you would be 
different. More committed. And it turns out, he said, with what he plainly 
considered a most telling point, that youre just a common thief after all.
Trent stared at the boy for a moment with very real offense, held back the 
reflexive anger with genuine effort. I, he said with icy self-control, am a 
brilliant thief.




11-
 ^  
To die for an idea is to place a pretty high price upon conjecture.
Anatole France
La Revolte des anges, 1914 Gregorian

The next morning when Trent rose to go on the stakeout again, Lan was already 
awake and dressed, waiting for him.
I want to go with you.
Suit yourself, said Trent shortly. You wont like it.
They sat in the nearly complete darkness, from the moment when Trent turned the 
engines off at just before 10:00 a.m., until about 10:10.
Lan said, You justsit here and watch rolligons go by?
And crawlers. About one crawler for every eight rolligons.
Im bored.
Read a book. Or take a nap.
Lan turned on his handheld, and the holofield sprang into existence just below 
the level of the chameleons front viewscreen. Trent did not ask Lan what he was 
reading, and Lan did not volunteer the information. Just before 11:00 a single 
rolligon ghosted through the pass beneath them; Trent did not think Lan noticed.
About 11:15 Lan put his handheld aside. He did not turn it off. Im bored.
Take a nap.
Lan, sleeping, took up three quarters of the chameleons bench seat. He was a 
light sleeper, shifting positions every few minutes. Trent found it almost 
impossible to attain the state of reverie which had marked his earlier 
stakeouts. Even without running the data from his optic nerve through his inskin 
the glare from the handhelds holofield was bright enough that Trent could see 
the entire interior of the chameleon without difficulty.
Trent gazed at Lan with a complete lack of expression. Lans head rested against 
the glassite of the side window and his feet were in the well that was intended 
for Trents feet. In sleepy attempts to get comfortable, Lan kicked Trent in the 
shins repeatedly. Trent finally propped his feet up on an empty spot on the 
instrument panel, and leaned back against the left-hand sidewall of the crawler, 
arms crossed over his chest. On Earth it would have been an impossible position; 
even in one-sixth gee it was not comfortable.
Noon.
At 1:22 a Peaceforcer rolligon slowly moved along the bottom of the gully, forty 
meters away from the chameleon. The time flickered into Trents awareness 
without any conscious thought on his part; two hours, twenty-eight minutes since 
the last one. Since beginning the stakeout Trent had waited as long as three 
hours and as little as twenty minutes between Peaceforcer rolligons.
He watched the rolligon disappear into the distance.
Suddenly he couldnt take any more. His shins were sore where Lan had kicked 
them and even in one-sixth gee his buttocks were going numb from the position he 
was sitting in.
Lan. Trent reached over and shook the boys shoulder. Lan, wake up.
Lans eyes flickered open for an instant and then closed again. He didnt move a 
centimeter.
Wake up, Trent repeated. He dropped his feet down to where they belonged. He 
felt his heel strike Lans shin and smiled. He thought about kicking Lan again 
just to get even.
Instead he lifted Lans legs and shoved them over onto Lans side of the cab.
Lans eyes opened and stayed open. He glared at Trent. What are you doing?
This chameleon, Trent said, isnt big enough for you to stretch out like 
that. If I was a midget maybe you could stretch out, but Im not a midget. Stay 
on your own side.
Lan sat up straighter and pulled his right knee up to his chest. He rubbed his 
shin. You kicked me in the shin and you woke me up from a good dream, he said.
Im really sorry about that.
I was having this great dream about a three-armed boy.
A three-armed boy?
Yeah. Lan turned his head to meet Trents eyes. Even sitting up and on his own 
side of the cab, there was barely a hundred centimeters separating them. Trent 
could smell the scent of the soap Lan had showered with that morning. A great 
dream.
Trent was not at all certain he wanted to know. About?
Lan smiled slightly. What would you dream about doing with a three-armed boy?
Trent stared at him blankly. I dont think Id dream of doing anything with a 
three-armed boy.
Lan held Trents gaze for an instant longer, then looked away. Too bad. Would 
you dream of doing anything with a two-armed boy?
Trent didnt answer.
The headlights of a Peaceforcer rolligon appeared in the distance and Trent sat 
forward, peering through the viewscreen. Damn. Damn the evil bastards.
Whats the matter? Lan shifted slightly, leaning forward to look at the 
rolligon. His shoulder brushed Trents.
A rolligon went by five minutes ago. Now heres another one. Why cant these 
people be regular? Their whole world is regimented, and the only time I ever 
want them to do something by the clock they come bopping along whenever they 
feel like it. Trent settled back in his seat. You cant trust Peaceforcers to 
do anything right.
Lan did not reply. Trent, sitting motionless in the gloom and watching the 
rolligon, could feel Lan watching him. When the rolligons headlights had 
finally faded into the Lunar dust, he turned his head toward Lan, but the boy 
had already looked away.
Lan pulled his legs up, sitting tailor fashion and, Trent noted, taking up more 
than his half of the seat again. The boy reached behind his head and untied the 
scarlet-black ribbon that held back his long brown hair. Lan ran his fingers 
through the pale brown strands of his hair, not noticeably neatening them, and 
retied the ribbon.
Trent decided that a two-person chameleon wasnt big enough for two people.
Im bored, Lan announced for the third time. He looked at Trent expectantly.
Trent dropped his leg back into the well and turned to face Lan. What do you 
expect me to do about it?
Lan sighed. You cant think of anything to do?
You didnt have to come today, Lan. Trent shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 
You could have stayed at the hotel. That would have been a good idea.
The boy reached out a hand and stroked the material of Trents shirt with one 
finger. The touch was so soft Trent couldnt actually feel it. Lan grinned at 
him. I can think of something to do. Lans hand slipped down, curling around 
the side of Trents waist. He was so close Trent could feel his breath as he 
spoke. I can think of lots of things to do.
Lan leaned forward and Trent put one hand in the center of his chest and pushed 
him away. They stared at each other.
I dont think so, Trent said.
Lan relaxed and the distance between them widened to an enormous twenty-five 
centimeters. No? he said.
No.
Oh, well. Lan didnt seem particularly hurt or offended. The boy shifted over 
to his own side of the bench seat and said, Ive got another good idea then.
Whats that? Trent asked warily.
Have you ever blown anything up?
No. Well, yes. Two safes. To open them.
I brought some blasting plastic with me. Lets ambush the next rolligon and 
slaughter the Peaceforcers in it.
Trent stared at Lan. Youre as crazy as a bird. Killing is wr
Wrong, Lan chimed in. Ive heard you say that. A lot. But if we dont kill 
them now we just have to kill them later.
You dont just have to kill anyone. Besides, no one is supposed to know were 
here. You think killing a truckload of Peaceforcers is going to go unnoticed?
Maybe, Lan said hopefully. And after a moment, Are you sure you dont want to 
fool around?
There was a short silence.
Id rather not, Trent finally said.
Why not?
Trent tried to think up a good answer. Well, he said, I dont habitually 
sleep with boys.
Oh? You dont habitually do it. Does that mean you do it sometimes?
Well, no, Trent said. I dont do it at all. He paused. Actually, Ive slept 
with Jimmy Ramirez, a friend of mine on Earth.
Lan looked optimistic. Really?
But we slept. I mean, that was all. It was cold and there was no heat. And only 
one bed; the Temple Dragons never had enough of anything.
Lan leaned back on his side of the seat. You dont kill people and you dont 
have sex with boys. He examined Trent curiously. Honestly, youre the craziest 
thing I ever saw.
Trent said, You mean you never saw one of those guys who ties up balloons into 
the shapes of animals?

Two more bodies arrived that evening.
Callia Sierran was conspicuously silent to Trent for the next three days. The 
fourth morning was December the 30th, with only one day remaining in the year, 
only three days before the boost itself was set to go. Callia was awake and 
dressed, waiting patiently for Trent in the main room when Trent got up. Trent 
ignored her, made a thermos of coffee and fried two eggs. He toasted bread while 
frying the eggs, put mayonnaise on one piece of toast and mustard on the other, 
and waited.
Callia sat motionlessly on the long couch in the main room, watching Trent. She 
wore modest red fatigues, zipped all the way to her collarbone. Her maser was 
strapped to her thigh, and for an instant the image bothered Trent. Then it 
swarmed up out of memory: Domino, standing in the airlock at Bessel City, had 
been dressed just like that, down to the quick-draw holster on her thigh.
When the eggs were done he put one egg on top of the mayonnaise, a slice of 
cheese on top of that, the second egg on top of the cheese, and the 
mustard-covered piece of toast on top of that. He sliced the sandwich diagonally 
and handed half of it to Callia without asking her if she wanted it. Come on, 
he said wearily. Lets go.
She was silent on the way down to the hotels garage, eating her half of the egg 
sandwich. She was silent while the chameleon cycled through the garages 
airlock, silent as Trent drove. She said nothing all the way out to the spot 
where Trent parked the chameleon and turned off the engine.
It was five minutes before 10:00 a.m.
Sitting inside the chameleon with no artificial sound but the gentle murmur of 
the airplant, Trent was intensely aware of Callia on the long bench seat next to 
him. He could hear her breathing; with some concentration, filtering out the 
sounds of his own body, he could hear her heartbeat.
Noon came and went without a single Peaceforcer vehicle passing them.
Most of the men I have ever known, said Callia, found silence very 
uncomfortable.
Trent sat comfortably in the dark silence without replying.
Over half an hour passed before she spoke again. Trent could almost hear the 
smile in her voice. Im not going to outwait you, am I?
Are you trying to?
Not any more. I want to talk to you, Trent.
Feel free.
How did we get out here?
I drove us. In the chameleon. You were there the whole way.
Thats not what I mean.
Then I dont know what you do mean.
Its night, Trent. The terrain is practically invisible. You didnt use the 
headlamps all the way out here. You didnt yesterday, when Lan went with you.
What do you think the PKF would do, Callia, if they looked down from one of 
their Orbital Eyes and saw some fool driving out every day to park and watch PKF 
rolligons wander by?
Thats clear enough. What I dont understand is how you could see to drive 
without lights.
I have this great inskin.
Trent.
Trent paused, thinking. All right. You know anything about image processing?
A bit. Like what a night scope does for snipers?
Interesting choice of analogy, Trent said quietly. But essentially correct. I 
can do something very similar with my inskin.
Ive known two Players before you, Trent. Ive never even heard of someone 
being able to do something like this.
Trent shrugged. Its a new model inskin. A nerve net with fairly remarkable 
processing power. Its only been on the market for about half a year.
Are you really a genie?
Yes.
youre notvery humanin an awful lot of ways, Trent.
Humanity, said Trent, is overrated. One of my friends is a replicant AI. 
Anothers a genie. Anothers a completely normal human whos studying to become 
a lawyer. Ask me which one I trust most.
Thats almost not what I mean. You are about to hurt the Peaceforcers worse 
than I think theyve ever been hurt before, and Im not sure why youre doing 
it.
I already had that conversation witha cranky old woman. She decided I was a 
man of virtue and good motives.
Trent, why are you here?
Trent did not answer her for a while, thinking. Finally he said, Do you really 
need to know?
Not really. She was silent a beat, then said, Youre confusing Lan.
Trent laughed aloud. I dont think so. I think Lan knows exactly what he 
wants.
You said no to him.
Yes.
Why?
I prefer girls.
Hmm. Trent could hear her shifting position on the long bench next to him. 
You couldnt tell it by me.
Insulted?
A little, perhaps, she said softly. Not very. Are you in love?
In love? I dont know Yes. A girl I may not ever see again.
Youre probably going to die at Verne.
Good chance of it.
Do you want to survive the boost?
Thats a stupid question.
Is it? I havent known you very long, Trent. The only other person I ever knew 
like you got to be a hero about a month after he started acting the way youre 
acting right now.
Im a little tired, Callia. Thats all.
He heard the long slow exhalation of her breath. Have you learned anything out 
here, watching the Peaceforcers?
A couple things. Theres one daily rolligon from Tsiolkovsky, comes by every 
afternoon between one and two oclock, usually closer to one than two. Its 
never come earlier than 1:08, never later than 1:56. Aside from that one 
rolligon theres no regularity to the traffic that Ive been able to determine; 
I presume that one regularly scheduled rolligon heads back to Tsiolkovsky 
sometime later at night. Ive learned that Lan has no patience and that you do.
Trent?
Yes?
Have you ever made love in a crawler?
No. I watched a man die, sitting where you are right now. This was his crawler. 
It was a bitch to get the blood off the seat. Trent paused. Its been a bitch 
of a year.
Im sure. He heard the rustle of her clothing, of the woman undressing in the 
dark.
Trent said quietly, Do you know what youre doing?
I am reminding you, said Callia Sierran, why you want to survive this boost,
The last two bodies arrived that evening.




12-
 ^  
On January 2, 2070, the night before they were scheduled to ambush the 
Peaceforcer rolligon carrying Benny Gutierrez, Lan and Callia went to Jackson 
Town, to pray at the Temple. Trent did not go, nor Korimok. They sat together in 
the main room, in a comfortable silence. Korimok was playing a sensable, Trent 
did not know by whom, the overlarge sensablists traceset resting lightly on his 
temples. His eyes were half open and his lips were moving whenever the 
sensables viewpoint character spoke. From the half-spoken words which Trent 
heard from Korimok, he did not think the sensable was in either English or 
French.
Trent sat on a couch looking out the window.
The fact that there was a window at all, that the rooms they were staying in 
were above ground, screamed tourist. Loonies do not care what things are like 
outside; whether its night or day does not matter to them. Theres never any 
air and it is always either far too hot or far too cold. When the sun is in the 
sky the landscape is white and gray, as dull and boring as Earths Antarctic 
deserts; when the sun is not in the sky the landscape is essentially invisible.
It was nighttime still on the far side; but the two-week night was nearly over, 
and before eight hours were up the sun would rise. Now nothing but the starshine 
illuminated the plain which surrounded Jackson Town and the hills which rose 
away from it.
It was as bright as daylight to Trent. He played with the data from his optic 
nerve, slowly building up, one seconds image on top of another, an image of the 
Lunar landscape outside the window that was of photographic quality. At any 
given moment the scattered starlight was nearly indiscernible; over the space of 
minutes the landscape slowly evolved into a glaringly bright panorama which 
stretched clear to the horizon.
Only a small part of Trent watched Yevgeni; another small portion processed the 
image of the Lunar desert.
Most of him was inundated by the Crystal Wind.
The preacher is a middle-aged man with a pot belly, pounding on the pulpit as he 
reads from the Bible. Hath we not all one father? Hath not one God created us? 
Why do we deal treacherously every man against his brother, by profaning the 
covenant of our father?
Text, no video, no sound: Jerusalem (AP)Shoichirp Okaya, the text says, Japans 
ambassador to the government of Greater Israel, was killed today when a car bomb 
blew up outside a Palestinian college Sieur Okaya was visiting.
A woman wails in the back of Trents skull, wailing as the holocams pan around 
the devastation at Tunis airport, where a semiballistic has come down out of 
control and smashed into an aircraft that was taking off. Mahliya Kutura sings 
to Trent, from a live concert in China, sings to him of her despair, of her 
love. The Unification Council approves construction of a warship tentatively 
called the Unity; at an estimated cost of nearly eight billion Credit Units, it 
will be the single most expensive spacecraft ever built. A woman in India drowns 
herself and her three children. A man in Canada is killed when the worlds 
largest collection of Wagner memorabilia falls on him; it makes the late edition 
of the Electronic Times.
There was movement around Trent; Yevgeni rising, the gentle whisper of doors 
opening and closing.
A squad of PKF Elite raid and burn to the ground an ideolog camp at Kochovskaya, 
Russia. In Oakland, California, in Occupied America, a suit is filed in 
Californias Superior Court to prevent a suspected genie from playing in the WFL 
System Bowl until he has undergone a test to verify that he is not a genie. The 
captain of a tuna boat reports seeing, for the first time in over five years, a 
large school of dolphins on the open sea, two hundred kilometers west and south 
of Hawaii; his report is widely discounted. The Loos Microlectrics Corporation 
of Mexico City reports the largest first-year revenues of any start-up 
corporation in over two decades. Douglass Ripper, Jr., Unification Councilor for 
New York Metro, submits a bill to the Unification Council calling for a 
reduction of PKF forces in Occupied America amounting to nearly one quarter of 
the total PKF presence in Occupied America.
Trent was distantly aware of Lans presence, but it did not draw him away from 
his immersion in the Crystal Wind until Lan said quietly, almost hesitantly, 
Trent?
From a great distance, Trent said, Yes?
You know, Lan said quietly, sometimes I sleep with people who slept with 
Callia. They all say Im better than she is.
Trent opened his eyes slightly. The rooms lights had been turned off; to Lan it 
must have seemed that he stood in very nearly complete darkness. To Trents 
dark-adapted genie eyes, without even employing the image processing his inskin 
gave him access to, the boy was a barely visible shape standing in the doorway 
to the bedroom he shared with Callia.
Trent said simply, I believe you.
Im probably never going to see you again after tomorrow.
The boys image flared slowly, as though a bright light were coming up; it was 
not something Trent had consciously decided to do. In the real world, Lan, 
people, even good friends  part. Sometimes you see them again, sometimes you 
dont.
Lan said with such utter certainty that Trent was chilled, Ill never see you 
again.
Im sorry, then. I like you.
Im sorry, too. Good night, Trent. Trent sat watching the boy; Lan started to 
turn away and then stopped and did not move at all, just stood in the doorway 
with the unreal starlight reflecting off the planes of his face.
Trent? he said at last.
Yes?
The boy said awkwardly, I really do like you.
Go to bed, Lan.
Trent  Im cold.
Lan, its not Trents voice trailed off, remembering Jimmy Ramirezs shocked 
reaction on the very cold night Trent had asked to sleep with him, and finally 
he said softly, All right. Go get a blanket and come over here.
Lan was back quickly with a light blanket. He sat down on the couch next to 
Trent, cuddled up against him. Lan was shivering and it was a long time before 
he stopped; Trent sat quietly with the boy in his arms, waiting while Lan 
dropped off, watching the impossible silver starlight while Lan slept.

The preacher has reached a fine height of screaming euphoria, has built to a 
shrieking, pulpit-pounding finale. And Behold, the Lord said to Malachi, I will 
send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me: and the Lord, whom ye 
seek, shall suddenly come to his temple, even the messenger of the covenant, 
whom ye delight in: behold, he shall come, saith the Lord of Hosts! But who may 
abide the day of his coming? And who shall stand when he appeareth?




13-
 ^  
An the early morning hours of January 3, 2070, a pair of chameleon crawlers and 
a single very expensive chameleon rolligon pulled out of the hotel garage 
outside of Jackson Town, and set off across the sunlit Lunar surface.
Behind them, in the hotel, Trent had turned off the radio packet InfoNet 
service; if things went well, two Peaceforcers with radio packet inskins would 
be held prisoner in those rooms for two or three days, and Trent didnt want 
them making calls.
He had left Lans gift, the gun, in Callia and Lans bedroom.
In the rolligon as they left that morning were a loonie and a crazy woman and 
seven bodies; in the lead chameleon there was a nice young ideolog, and in the 
chameleon at the tail of the procession was a man wearing a Peaceforcer uniform 
and a Peaceforcers face.
By 9:00 a.m., better than four hours before Benny Gutierrez was due to drive by, 
they were in place.
The elongated shadows of early morning were scheduled to last all day. It made 
the hilly landscape around the gorge eerie; the long, jutting- spires of rock 
casting long sweeping shadows behind them.

Trent did not like the scalesuit he wore.
He sat completely unmoving in the shade, out of the broiling sun, on the shady 
side of a large boulder that would keep him from the view of the approaching 
Peaceforcer rolligon until the rolligon was immediately beneath him. He was on 
the far side of the crevasse from Callia and Lan and Yevgeni S. Korimok; the 
rolligon would pass between them.
Trent found that he had grown used to soft pressure suits; the stiff scalesuit, 
its front blackened as though by heat damage, had already rubbed him raw at the 
back of his neck, and was starting in on his thighs. The inside pocket where his 
handheld was stored pressed against Trents hip; the spot where the handheld 
pressed was going numb.
The fadeaway bomb sat at his feet. It was an improvement on the device he had 
used at Luna City, and had cost him better than twenty times as much as that 
small device. The bomb was oval, about the size of a football; one surface was 
completely flat. If the bomb worked correctly, as the prototype had, it would 
connect itself to the surface of the Peaceforcer rolligon by a superconducting 
magnet, punch a sixty-centimeter-long spike down through the stiff outer wall of 
the rolligon, and, through the spike, spray fadeaway at high pressure across the 
interior of the rolligon. Assuming they were wearing their suits with the 
helmets offstandard PKF operating procedurethe fadeaway would get them all.
The chill of the frozen stones Trent sat upon was reaching up through the 
scalesuit, despite the best efforts of the scalesuit to keep Trent warm. The 
softsuit Nathan had bought Trent, which he had worn during his entire time on 
Luna, had kept him far warmer. Trent was completely hidden in the shadow of the 
boulder; there is no atmospheric scattering on Luna to prevent shadows from 
being completely black.
Radio silence was in force. He could not talk to Callia or Sergei, waiting in 
the chameleonized rolligon on the other side of the gorge, or Lan, in the 
crawler a quarter of a mile to the east.
The Peaceforcer rolligon came from the west, from Tsiolkovsky Crater. Trents 
inskin placed the time at 1:14 p.m. when he first saw the approaching rolligons 
headlights, almost invisible in the harsh sunlight. The scalesuit Trent wore was 
an exact duplicate of the ones the Peaceforcers themselves used, down to the PKF 
insignia on the breast; it was equipped to monitor both standard PKF com bands 
and emergency broadcast frequencies.
Complete silence on every band. Trent cycled up and down through the eight 
channels the scalesuit was capable of accessing; nothing at all. The PKF 
rolligon moved slowly forward, made its creeping way across the regolith. The 
vehicle faced directly into the low sun; their visibility would be terrible. 
Trent sat patiently, waited while the rolligon, painted in the black and silver 
of the United Nations Peace Keeping Force, grew large before him. Fifteen meters 
long, three wide, the rolligon had six huge unpressurized wheels that lifted 
dust up into the early sunlight, where it hung for long moments before beginning 
its descent back to the Lunar soil.
Trent set his scale suits radio for Channel Eight, emergency frequency for the 
PKF.
The nose of the rolligon was passing underneath Trent.
Trent picked up the fadeaway bomb, held it in one hand, and jumped.
His hiding place was just over ten meters above the surface of the crevasse, and 
the top of the rolligon was four and a half meters above that; he fell not quite 
six meters in one-sixth gee while the rolligon moved beneath him.
He landed unsteadily on the tail end of the rolligon with a thump which rocked 
the vehicle slightly. He scrambled for balance, hampered by servos that were 
slower than his own muscles, lunged forward at the last moment and landed belly 
down across the top of the rolligon, still holding the fadeaway bomb. He took 
the time to do it right, laid the bomb across the smooth metal of the rolligons 
upper surface, and thumbed the pressure point that activated it.
The heat reached him through the insulating layers of the scalesuit. The surface 
of the rolligon glowed red over a half-meter-wide section. Trent had only an 
instant to realize what was happening; he had an instantaneous vision of the 
maser blast that had taken Nathan in the stomach, and in one convulsive leap got 
off the surface of the rolligon and fell tumbling the rest of the way to the 
bottom of the crevasse.
He sat up slowly.
The rolligon continued moving toward the east, not slowing at all. There was no 
sound at all on Channel Eight; Trent cycled through the rest of the PKF com 
bands.
Silence.
The rolligon crept slowly forward, maintaining an even speed, moving straight 
forward, not veering at all, not even when the road did.
Trent exhaled a breath he had not known he was holding, and bounced to his feet. 
He waved an arm toward the spot where the other three were waiting, and trotted 
forward to where the rolligon was trying to drive its way through the side of a 
hill.
Trent cycled through the rolligons airlock, into pressure. In the forward cabin 
a young Peaceforcer, male, was slumped forward over the instrument panel. Trent 
turned the engine off and went back. In the rear passenger cabin there were 
exactly six Peaceforcers, and Trent had to suppress a quick wave of relief; the 
one thing hed found no way at all to plan for had been an extra passenger being 
sent along in the rolligon at the last moment. The back cabin consisted of a 
pair of bench seats running down the long axis of the rolligon. The long spike 
through which the fadeaway had been sprayed hung straight down through the roof 
of the rolligon, still dripping very slightly. Three of the Peaceforcers were 
sitting on the seats in their scalesuits, restraining straps holding them 
upright. The other three were sprawled on the rear cabins floor; one of those 
three, facedown in his scalesuit, holding a maser in his fist, had stayed awake 
long enough to get his scalesuits helmet on; with his maser set to wide 
dispersion he had heated the roof of the rolligon until Trent had had to leap 
off.
Trent pulled him up with one hand, and stared into the very same face that 
looked back at him in the mirror these days.
Trent felt an unreasonable degree of pride in the man whose face he was wearing; 
to the unconscious Peaceforcer named Benny Gutierrez, Trent said, Good try.
Trent heard the airlock cycle open behind him; Callia cycled through, bounced 
over to Trent and grabbed Gutierrez from him without waiting for Trent to 
release the Peaceforcer.
Trent picked up another Peaceforcer from the floor of the rolligon, dogged the 
mans helmet into place, and followed her.
There is no protection from fadeaway except to avoid it. Inside their rolligon 
Yevgeni wore his pressure suit with the gloves removed; he also wore a pair of 
plastiflesh gloves Trent had given him. In Trents line of work they were useful 
because they left no fingerprints, but allowed tactile sensitivity nearly as 
good as bare skin.
They were also impermeable to fadeaway.
Yevgeni was undressing Peaceforcers and dressing corpses. Benny Gutierrez was 
propped up in a corner of the passenger cab; he was the only Peaceforcer who was 
not being stripped of his clothing and scalesuit.
Yevgeni checked the name patch on the outside of a scalesuit, compared it with 
the assignment papers found inside the unconscious Peaceforcers coat. Henri 
Charbonneau! Yevgeni called out. Callia turned off the stasis field enclosing 
the seven forms, selected one of the corpses by an ID tag on its toe, and 
without flinching, without any apparent distaste at all, pulled the nude form 
out, turned the stasis field back on, and pulled the corpse back to where 
Yevgeni was undressing PKF Officer Henri Charbonneau. Trent watched while the 
dead mans body was dressed and stuffed into Charbonneaus scalesuit. The entire 
procedure left him with an emotion he was not quite able to put a name to; he 
shook his head after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck against the damn 
uncomfortable rear seal of the scalesuits helmet, and cycled back through the 
airlock to go get the rest of the bodies.
It took longer than Trent had hoped.
It took even longer than he had feared.
It was nearly two oclock before they were done. Trent worked up a heavier sweat 
in those forty-five minutes than at any time since coming to Luna. The inside of 
his scalesuit hummed with the sound of the airplant struggling to cool and 
dehumidify the air Trent was breathing. At any moment Trent expected to see 
headlights coming from either the east or the west. By a quarter of two they had 
switched the corpses for the live Peaceforcers; Trent put the black and silver 
rolligon back in gear, pulled back from the side of the hill, and drove another 
quarter kilometer down the crevasse. He drove slowly; he had difficulty 
controlling the vehicle with the thick scalesuit gloves on, but the interior of 
the vehicle was coated with fadeaway, and he did not dare take them off. The 
corpse that had been substituted for the driver sat on the seat at his side.
Lan was waiting, sitting in his scalesuit atop a large boulder. He waved Trent 
to a stop, pointing to the place where he wanted the rolligon parked. Trent 
stopped the rolligon, left the motor running. He pulled the corpse into place in 
the drivers seat; the corpse resisted as all the corpses had resisted being 
handled, as though, in death, they fought a silent battle to retain some small 
shred of forgotten dignity.
Outside Trent went around to the back of the rolligon. Lan was there already, 
placing a small charge on the rear axle. He motioned Trent back, touched a stud 
on the charge and then bounced back himself. He had timed it closely; the charge 
went off soundlessly in the vacuum, with a sharp flash that came so quickly that 
the glassite in Trents helmet could not darken in time to compensate. When the 
dots faded from his vision, the rear axle was snapped cleanly in half, and the 
entire rear third of the rolligon sagged backward.
Lan touched helmets with Trent. Youre supposed to be outside to find out 
whats wrong with this sucker. We blow it away through the front, demolish the 
driver so theres no way to ID him, burn up the rest of them pretty good. The 
artillery Im using, theres no real way youd survive if you were really 
standing back here when I hit the rolligon. Even so its going to be tough. I 
want you to stand back a good twenty-five meters, right over there, so itll 
look like the shock wave picked you up and threw you. Its going to knock you 
down even at twenty-five meters, but unless you catch shrapnel youre OK.
Am I going to catch shrapnel?
No. I dont think so.
All right.
Lan hesitated a moment, helmet still touching Trents. Callia said to tell you 
shed pray for you.
Tell her I said thank you. For everything. And Lan?
Yeah? Even through two layers of scalesuit Trent could hear the nervous 
impatience in the boys voice.
Think about what I said. Trent could barely see Lans features. Theres 
better ways to do things than by killing people who never harmed you.
Lan stared at Trent for a long moment. You are, he said finally, the smartest 
real idiot Ive ever met.
I like you too, Lan.
Lan snorted loudly enough for Trent to hear him, and took two long bouncing 
steps away. The boy froze after the second step, stood motionless for just an 
instant, then bounced back to Trent and touched helmets. Youre boring in bed, 
but you snuggle good. Its been real. He bounced away again before Trent could 
reply.
Trent walked back to the spot Lan had pointed out, stood in the Lunar sunshine, 
waiting. Nothing was happening; no movement, anywhere at all. After about ten 
minutes had passed Trent checked the time in his inskin and found it had only 
been ninety seconds since Lan had left him.
He found he was trembling slightly inside the scalesuit. Im standing here in 
death pressure, Trent thought clearly, twenty-five meters from an explosion 
thats going to completely destroy a Peaceforcer troop transport.
This is crazy.
The universe blew up in his face.




14-
 ^  
Throughout the long nightmare he remains aware. The flesh is unmoving, 
insensate. Eons tick away as he waits, nanosecond upon nanosecond. One eyelid is 
half open; the other is entirely shut. Through the half-open eye he sees vague 
forms moving around him. He is unable to focus at all. The forms, he is sure, 
are those of Lan and Callia; neither one comes anywhere near Trents unconscious 
form, not even to assure themselves he survived the explosion. Though he cannot 
see them clearly enough to tell, Trent/Johnny Johnny knows that they are 
spraying artificially darkened Lunar dust everywhere either one of them has 
stepped, and that they will walk back to where Nathans crawler and the rolligon 
full of kidnapped Peaceforcers await them. The third chameleon, the one Lan 
drove out in, is rolling away on autopilot from the supposed scene of the 
attack. That portion of Trent which is aware right now has programmed that 
autopilot; a cursory search of the area around the rolligon will find the 
chameleons tracks, and the Peaceforcers will follow it for at least a day 
before catching it and finding it empty. With any degree of luck at all, nobody 
will backtrack far enough to find the place where the Peaceforcer rolligon was 
actually stopped.
Silence now.
A complete lack of motion.
The scalesuit gets very hot. He is aware of this as he might be aware of 
something happening to someone else entirely.
Over two hours pass.
There is a sudden glare of light, so intense and unwavering that he ceases to 
pay attention to the information from his optic nerve even before the scalesuit 
helmet darkens to protect the flesh inside from the too-bright light. He waits 
in the electronic nothingness, waits in the stasis of datastarve.
Not quite an hour.
The insensate flesh is touched, moved, lifted. He dwindles into the silence of 
datastarve. Of complete and total nothing.

The sharp, stinging smell of ammonia roused him.
A voice spoke in French, something about how Trent felt.
Trent blinked. What?
The Peaceforcer paused, spoke again in English, slowly. How are you feeling?
Trent looked around slowly. The edges of things were blurred. He was lying on 
the long bench seat in the back of a rolligon, taking up one entire bench. The 
rolligon bounced slightly as it moved. The Peaceforcer crouched next to him 
stared at him with a furrowed brow.
Trent said, Im not  I
The Peaceforcer said urgently, What happened?
It was no effort at all to make the world go away again.
That was just before 7:00 p.m., January 3.

Trent was more or less undressed, wearing nothing but his shorts, face to face 
with the first doctor he had ever met who looked like his conception of what a 
doctor should be.
Look into the light, please. Dont blink.
Trent stared up into the small penlight the PKF doctor shone into his left eye. 
Doctor Grissom was visibly old, with wrinkles around his eyes and black hair 
streaked with silver. He grunted after a moment, and said gruffly to Trent, in 
French laced with a thick German accent, Were going to do the right eye now, 
hold still. He held the light on the right eye for just a moment, clicked the 
penlight off and put it in his coat pocket. He glanced slightly to the side, to 
the holograph of Trents skull which hung in midair next to Trents skull.
There was a PKF captain standing at the door to the infirmary. The infirmary was 
not large; four beds, hospital equipment which Trent largely did not recognize. 
Only one door.
The glowpaint was pure white, harsh and officious.
The captain, a pair of armed junior PKF standing immediately behind him, had 
watched Doctor Grissoms examination of PKF Officer Benny Gutierrez with clear 
impatience.
Doctor Grissom asked Trent only one question in the course of his examination, 
after running Trent through a full-body MRI slowscan. What is this, with your 
knee?
Whats what?
Scar tissue, recent. Your file shows no knee problems.
I was skiing, on vacation. A medbot took care of it the same day. I guess 
thats why its not in the file.
Hmm. Looks like its been injured twice?
Trent shrugged. Only once.
Doctor Grissom nodded thoughtfully, turned to the PKF captain. He has a slight 
concussion, probably due to his inskin. Not serious. Also a large bruise on the 
back of his skull, also not serious.
And a headache, said Trent.
And a headache, the doctor agreed. He handed Trent a small glass of water with 
a pill. Drink this, and then go with the nice captain. To the nice captain, 
Doctor Grissom said, He sleeps here tonight, where I can keep an eye on him. 
The slowscan does not show any internal bleeding, but that may be meaningless.
The captain, who had not introduced himself to Trent, said stiffly, Very well. 
To Trent he said, Officer Gutierrez, please come with me.
Can I get dressed first?
The man had been turning away; he turned back in surprise. Certainly. Be 
quick.

The uniform stank of stale sweat.
Trent followed the captain down a series of long underground corridors and up a 
long ramp, paying attention to the route he traveled, checking off what he saw 
against the map of the DataWatch base which he carried in his inskin. The 
infirmary was on Level Two, which was actually the first level beneath the 
surface of the regolith; Level One was the only level of the base which was 
above ground.
The corridors were full of bustling Peaceforcers. Trent saw perhaps forty 
people, mostly young, on his way to the briefing room. All were in PKF uniforms, 
either dress or combat fatigues. All were in a hurry. A very few of them had 
visible inskins; none of them had the characteristic stiff skin of PKF Elite. 
Most of them did not even glance at Trent as he walked through the corridors 
behind the captain, in front of the two armed guards.
The glowpaint throughout the entire base was white. Nowhere did Trent see the 
yellow glow of sunpaint.
After a three-minute walk they came to a point where the corridor widened 
slightly. Above closed double doors was the legend briefing room. On the map 
which floated in the back of his mind, Trent placed them: 146 meters south of 
the north airlock. The nameless captain stopped before the door to the briefing 
room, placed a palm flat against the doorpad, and marched through once the 
double doors had rolled up, not so much as glancing back to verify that Trent 
had followed him.
There was a long oval table made of something that resembled aged beechwood. 
Seven Peaceforcer officers in uniform and one Elite Sergeant were assembled 
around one half of the table; there was an empty chair on the side of the table 
where all the officers were seated and a single unoccupied chair on the other 
side of the table. Without being told Trent stopped behind the unoccupied chair 
facing the officers, came to attention and saluted. He held the salute for not 
quite five seconds, staring straight ahead, until a gentle female voice said, 
At ease. Please sit down, Officer Gutierrez.
Trent did so, found a grand total of nine pairs of eyes staring back at him. The 
woman who had spoken to Trent, a mature, plain-featured woman whose age Trent 
could not have guessed, continued. I am Colonel Brissois, Commanding Officer 
for the Verne Farside DataWatch. My apologies to you, young man, for what we are 
about to put you through. But it is necessary. Commander Brissois seemed 
uncertain for just a moment. If you do not already know, Officer, your 
companions aboard the rolligon were all killed. You are the only survivor.
You are the only survivor. Trent was shakier than he had thought; the words 
struck him like a blow. For just an instant he was eleven years old again; he 
had watched Malko Kalharri die at the hands of an Elite cyborg and he had 
watched Suzanne Montignet kill herself, and in the midst of the riots as the 
Troubles began, had learned that everyone he had ever known as a child had died 
in nuclear flame.
He did not have to fake his reaction at all. Im sorry? What did you say?
Officer, Colonel Brissois said sharply, control yourself. We have a great 
deal to get through and not a great deal of time in which to do it.
Trent stared down at the surface of the oval table. Im sorry, Colonel. Its 
just He shook his head abruptly, looked up to meet her gaze, and found the 
Elite Sergeant studying him with a curiously detached expression. Im ready, 
Colonel.
Perhaps she smiled; the edges of her lips moved very slightly. Perhaps not. 
Very good. Lets start from the beginning.
Trent said slowly, We were  I would guess three hours from Tsiolkovsky. The 
rolligon  we thought it had broken down. There was a loud noise and the 
rolligon jerked to a stop. The rear end rode very low. I was sitting nearest the 
airlock, so Officer Deremehe was drivinghe asked me to go take a look and see 
what was wrong with the rear end. I
The Peaceforcer Elite interrupted. Why didnt Officer Dereme call in at that 
point?
Sir?
The Elite said patiently, Why didnt Dereme call in to notify us that he was 
being delayed en route? Its standard procedure, Officer Gutierrez.
Trent had not known that. Sir, I dont know.
The Elite nodded. Go on.
I sealed my helmet, cycled through and went around back. I remember thinking 
Trent paused. Never mind. I
Colonel Brissois interrupted him. What was it?
Colonel Trent took a breath. Colonel, I noticed that the horizon was very 
close. I
There was a chuckle from someone off to Trents left, a snort of disgust from 
someone off to the right. Trent did not take his eyes off Colonel Brissois. 
Colonel, I am new to Luna. Im sorry.
Youve nothing to be sorry for, the woman said quietly. Go on. You wont be 
interrupted again.
Theres not much left. At the back of the rolligon I looked at the rear axle 
and saw that it was broken. I think Trent paused, as though struggling with 
memory. There was something wrong with the way it was broken, Im not sure 
what. I was standing up and then Trents voice trailed off. I woke up here.
There was a moment of brief silence. Then the Elite Sergeant leaned forward and 
said in a voice heavy with disbelief, You saw nothing else?
No, sir.
A Peaceforcer off to Trents right said, What time was it when this happened?
Sir, I dont know. I guess we were three hours out from Tsiolkovsky, but Im 
not sure. I slept for a while.
There was another moments silence, and then Colonel Brissois did smile at 
Trent, a smile lacking any warmth at all, and said, Lets begin again. At the 
top.
It went on for many hours.

He lay in the dark of the infirmary, unable to sleep. Hed had a chance to 
shower, and had been issued a clean uniform; without making an issue of it Trent 
had managed to hang on to the boots hed worn in, claiming the boots theyd 
offered to substitute did not fit well. Between the boots and the handheld, the 
two items he had managed to bring into the base, Trent had everything he would 
need for the boost.
Pickup was between 9:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. tomorrow.
At sixteen minutes after midnight the door to the infirmary opened; Trent 
assumed it was Doctor Grissom. The man had promised to check in on Trent and 
awaken him every hour or so all night long.
Then the lights came up.
Trent sat up slowly in bed. Standing in the doorway, wearing a bolstered hand 
maser and dressed in PKF combat fatigues, a young female Peaceforcer with her 
face turned away from Trent said to somebody in the corridor outside, Not long 
at all, I promise. She turned to Trent, cool and unsmiling, as the door shut, 
and switched from French to English. Hello.
From inside the vast numbness of his surprise Trent said, Hi there.
Did I wake you up?
No. No, you didnt.
You are Officer Benny Gutierrez, yes?
Yes.
I am told your French is poor. Would you like to use English instead?
Sure. Thatd be great.
She took the only chair in the infirmary, pulled it up next to Trents bed, sat 
down and turned on her handheld, attached the gray traceset trode at her right 
temple and ran the thin cable down to plug it into the handheld. I am going to 
need to ask you some questions; I will try not to take too long.
I wasnt sleeping anyhow.
She pulled her chair a bit closer to Trent. I thought that might be the case, 
after what happened today. I was going to wait until the morning, but I thought 
it would be worth checking to see if you were able to answer questions tonight.
I can handle it, Trent assured her. I wasntvery close, you knowwith any of 
the PKF I shipped up with.
Her nod seemed tired. I suppose that is good. I am a personal assistant to 
Commissionaire Vance; we are doing a routine check to see whether it is possible 
that the criminal Trent had anything to do with what happened today. Ido you 
mind if I call you Benny? she asked suddenly.
Not at all. What do I Trent let the question hang.
My rank is a bit odd, she said. I am a detached PKF Elite candidate with a 
temporary working rank outside the Elite of lieutenant. I outrank you no matter 
how it gets figured, but you do not need to worry about that; if I am to call 
you Benny, you may call me Melissa. That is my name, she said. Melissa du 
Bois.
Her long hair, the gorgeous long brown hair, was gone. In its place was the 
spike brush cut which was common among women who had to wear any sort of 
pressure suit. She wore no makeup, and she had been wearing the same clothing 
since early that day; Trent could smell her if he tried, a musky odor that was 
genuinely pleasant. Her tan had faded in the months since she had left Earth 
behind, and some of the vitality had gone out of her; there was a subtle 
deadness in her voice, a lack of the animation and expressiveness that had been 
so striking in Trents earlier brief encounters with her.
There were tiny, almost invisible lines around her eyes.
She was stunning.
They ran through Trents story quickly; though she commented in a neutral tone 
of voice on Trents lack of helpfulness, Melissa showed no particular 
disappointment at the paucity of details Trent was able to provide her. About 
the point where things were winding down, Trent said, Melissa?
The beautiful brown eyes had lost none of their ability to project personal 
interest, the almost casual skill of making it seem that the person they were 
fastened upon was the most fascinating person whom Melissa had met in her entire 
life. Yes?
Theyre  not telling me much. About what happened, how close they are to 
finding the people who killed the other PKF who were with me. Melissa did not 
answer Trent immediately, and Trent said softly, Do you really think Trent had 
something to do with it?
She looked at him curiously, questioningly. How does it matter?
Trent blinked. Men I served with died out there, Melissa. I think I have a 
right to know.
Melissa continued studying him a moment longer, and then shook her head no, a 
single quick motion. I doubt it very much. It is not the style of thing he 
would be involved in. Not with deaths, like this.
Trent leaned forward in bed, suppressing with a genuine effort the sudden, 
completely insane desire to thank her. What else do you know about the attack?
Melissa did not answer him; she was busy with her handheld, paging through 
reports. She glanced up at Trent after a moment. Your data profile says you 
have a radio packet inskin?
Trent sat watching the curve of her cheek as she bent over the handheld. Yes.
She nodded. I do not know if I should be the one to tell you this, but it is 
hardly a secret; you would have learned it in your orientation lecture. Channel 
3050.5; the password is Eclairs, with a capital E. You will be able to monitor 
general Farside DataWatch business, as well as results on the current 
investigation as they are uploaded to the Board.
There was no trace of Watchdog on the Board; Trent scanned the Board quickly, 
said, Theres nothing on that channel about the attack, not yet.
He realized the mistake the instant the words were spoken.
Melissa nodded. Probably they have not released the preliminary report yet. 
But Her mouth closed very precisely. You checked the entire Board already?
Trent forced himself to look mildly surprised by her reaction. Well, I skimmed 
it, yes.
Melissa looked at him oddly, a quick sideways look. It was 12:35. I see. Well 
She hesitated in momentary indecision, and then said abruptly, Come with me.

In the room where Trent had undergone a lengthy interrogation by the officers of 
the DataWatch, Melissa du Bois showed Trent the status of the search for the 
terrorists who had destroyed Benny Gutierrezs rolligon.
It was completely dark except for the briefing rooms holo projectors; silent 
except for the sounds Trent and Melissa themselves made. The lasers were buried 
in the wall just above the point where the walls met the floor. With the 
glowpaint turned completely down the holos glowed bright, the only light in the 
world. Watching barefooted, wearing the pants from his uniform and a white 
undershirt, Trent felt like God. He looked down on the surface of Luna from a 
great height.
They sat in a pair of chairs so close together in the cool briefing room that 
Trent felt the heat of her body. This is a semirealtime image, Melissa said. 
It is updated every forty-five seconds. The triangle created by Jackson Town, 
Verne and Tsiolkovsky was laid out across the surface of the long conference 
table. The huge optical and radio telescopes at Zvezdagrad in Tsiolkovsky Crater 
were tiny specks; the dome at Jackson Town was the size of Trents thumbnail. 
The catapult at Jackson Town was an almost invisibly thin line about the same 
length as the diameter of the Jackson Town dome; the catapult at Verne Crater 
was the size of a toothpick. The hills and craters, maria and rills of Farside 
dwarfed the works of man.
Melissa pointed, moved one slender hand within the holograph. Here is where the 
attack on your rolligon took place, in this long ravine. From the evidence found 
at the scene The holograph flickered, and suddenly Trent was falling, plunging 
down toward the surface of Luna. The apparent point of view stabilized, stopped. 
The holograph showed a badly damaged rolligon. There were no Orbital Eyes 
watching this area when the attack took place. The terrorists would have known 
that; trying to maintain surveillance on all of Farside at all times would be 
impossible, and the Eyes are not designed to. As soon as the DataWatch here at 
Verne realized you had not arrived when you were due, every available Eye was 
turned to tracking your rolligon, and they found it quickly. Unfortunately, by 
then the terrorists were already gone. In the holograph hovering above the oval 
tabletop, with his naked eye Trent could see the very faintly lighter soil a 
quarter of a kilometer to the west, where Lan and Callia had sprayed dust to 
cover their tracks. There was a crawlerwhat is called a chameleon, Benny, 
coated with polypaint so that the crawler can shade itself into the environment 
around itright here. Her hand moved again, pointing. There are officers 
tracking the vehicle, but it is a slow process. Do you know anything about the 
sorts of vehicles in use on Luna?
Trent shook his head. I rode the Bulletthe monorailto Tsiolkovsky. I rode a 
rolligon from there. Thats all.
Melissa smiled for the first time. In the last two months I have become 
familiar with every form of transportation on this horrible little planet. You 
are missing very little, she told Trent.
Ill take your word for it.
Command, lights up. The bright glow of the white glowpaint came up around 
them. There is, in fact, not much left to tell you. The terrorists probably 
came from Jackson Town. It would be the logical place from which to stage such 
an operation, especially if the Frisian Claw was responsible for it; I am told 
the Church of Eris is very popular in Jackson Town.
Trent gambled, decided to let himself sound ignorant. Are they going to search 
Jackson Town?
Overplayed; he got the quick sideways look again. Jackson Town, she said 
severely, is Free Luna territory. You should know that.
Trent shook his head, made himself sound disgusted. I do. I mean, I did. It 
said that in the infochip I audited when I got assigned here. He sighed, 
brushed Benny Gutierrezs curly hair back from his brow. Im just not thinking 
very straight right now.
Her voice gentled immediately. It is all right. Just be careful not to make 
such mistakes in front of other members of the Lunar DataWatch. You will be 
assigned here for two years, yes? You could get a reputation it would beshe 
hesitated a momenthard to live down.
Youd know about that, wouldnt you?
Surprisingly, it did not get the response Trent had expected. Perhaps it was 
only that she was clearly tired; Melissa answered him without hesitation, 
without anger at the way the question was phrased. Yes. It is strange, in some 
ways; half a year ago I would have been so pleased to be doing what I am now 
doing, aiding Commissionaire Vance in a highly visible hunt for the 
highest-profile criminal in the System. Today Her voice trailed away; Trent 
nodded encouragingly, as though entranced, and after a moments pause Melissas 
voice came back even more firmly. Today the Commissionaire is laughed at for 
the first time in his career. He is a gentleman, she told Trent, and the 
frustration he feelsI see it, but he does not act upon it, he does not direct 
it at me. Before that news conference newsdancers kept questioning me about how 
it felt to be known as the officer who had failed to apprehend Trent at 
Spacebase One; after it they directed similar questions at the Commissionaire. 
He never ridiculed me before the news conference, when he was not so angry; he 
does not do so now, when he is.
Are you close to catching him?
Between the two of us, Benny, no, or I would not be wasting my time checking 
out random ideolog attacks like this one. Melissa yawned suddenly, stretching, 
the gray combat fatigues stretching tight across the muscles of her shoulders 
and upper arms. I think he must have left Luna. Were fairly sure he did not do 
so through any Unification port, but thats hardly relevant. It would be a small 
matter for him to charter a craft out of any Free Luna city. Commissionaire 
Vance disagrees with me, but She shrugged wearily and met Trents gaze with a 
certain degree of humor. Who can say? I would give a great deal to know what 
Trent is thinking.
How much?
Excuse me?
Never mind, Trent said. Youre very nice, you know.
Melissa du Bois looked at Trent coolly, with just a hint of speculation. 
Really.
Trent looked directly at her. Yes, he said gently, really. He did not look 
away, did not break contact with the serene, careful brown eyes. How long are 
you going to be here?
This base? A day, perhaps two. Why? The amusement in her voice was evident.
Just curious. No real reason. Trent did not let himself blink, kept his eyes 
fixed upon hers. Melissa looked at him curiously, and Trent whispered, Thank 
you. For everything. The puzzled look left her features slowly, and her eyes 
widened slightly. Trent did not move at all; held her eyes with the intensity in 
his own, held the connection. Her breath caught, stopped, started again at a 
quicker pace. Trent said nothing at all for a long moment, and then relaxed all 
at once, leaned back in his chair. Melissa shook herself with what appeared to 
Trent like a real effort. Trent said, Remember I said that. I mean it. Melissa 
du Bois looked away from Trent and said softly, I should take you back to the 
infirmary. It was 1:52 a.m.

Melissa jacked her handheld into the systerm in the small office Commander 
Brissois had given her, three doors down from the infirmary where Benny 
Gutierrez rested.
She seated herself before the systerms cameras.
Command, access Mohammed Vance.
It took most of two seconds, while the command was routed through LINK, bounced 
up to one of the ring of low-orbit comsats which serviced Luna and back down to 
the PKF base outside Luna City where Mohammed Vance was directing the search for 
Trent the Uncatchable. The loonie secretary whom the Lunar PKF had assigned 
Vance answered the phone, recognized Melissa and without saying a word put her 
on hold.
Melissa stared for twenty seconds at a stylized image of the Earth, on a 
background of twinkling stars. She had largely gotten used to it by now; where 
others used pictures of flowers, of forests, of art, for a person to look at 
while on hold, Mohammed Vances personal hold screen was a reproduction of the 
Unifications flag.
That was Vance, the man whom even many PKF considered too much of an ideolog.
When the fields image solidified again Mohammed Vance seemed to have appeared, 
quarter-size from the shoulders up, across the desk from Melissa. He spoke in 
French. Hello, Officer. News?
Very little, sir. I interviewed Officer Gutierrez at some length regarding the 
attack on his rolligon. He was able to tell me very little about the attack 
itself, and had few opinions as to the motives of the ideologs responsible for 
it.
Vance grunted. Indeed. He shrugged huge shoulders, sighed. I must say I am 
not surprised.
Melissa said, Sir, you dont think he had anything to do with this.
Mohammed Vance did not ask which he she referred to. No, of course not. He is 
neither a fool nor a murderer. Even if he were capable of such violence I cant 
envision him wasting his time with a tactically meaningless attack on a group of 
junior PKF webdancers. When will you be returning?
Perhaps tomorrow evening, sir. Once the chameleon theyre tracking has been 
found, or lost altogether. Melissa smiled, chuckled suddenly. Officer 
Gutierrez would like to see me stay longer, I think.
The cyborg eyes were almost incapable of expression. Oh?
Melissa shrugged, half regretting the comment already, and made a quick 
dismissing gesture. Im familiar with the response, sir, when death has brushed 
so closely. My first patrol partner on Earth fell in love with me for a week or 
so every time there was a close call.
Vance nodded gravely. I see.
I think Im the first person whos been kind to himwhos spent any time with 
himsince the attack on his rolligon, thats all.
I see.
There was a moments silence, and Melissa du Bois wondered if she had made a 
mistake in mentioning Gutierrezs apparent attraction to her. In the time she 
had been with Vance she had never once, not by word or gesture or glance, seen 
him indicate that he noticed her as a woman at all. She knew that he was 
married; his wife lived in Paris. As nearly as she could tell, after over two 
months of near constant contact with him, Vance was completely faithful to his 
wife. The lack of notice by Vance did not bother her; she was pleased by it. The 
PKF was to be her life, and if her father had done nothing else he had impressed 
upon her the importance of strictly conservative behavior in an officer of the 
PKF.
Vance nodded, very slowly indeed. There was no hostility in his voice, no anger. 
You like him?
Melissa answered cautiously. Yes. Hes very nice. Why do you ask?
For perhaps only the fourth or fifth time since he had requested Melissa du Bois 
be assigned as his personal assistant, Mohammed Vance smiled at her. It was an 
unnatural thing, the creasing of stiff folds of skin that was tougher than 
leather. Simple curiosity, Officer. Tell me about Officer Gutierrez.

A tiny spool of fineline, and a pair of tiny spraytubes. One spray-tube held 
glue; the other held fadeaway.
It was conceivable, though unlikely, that the spraytube of fadeaway would get 
enough fadeaway onto one of the Elite quickly enough to put him down before the 
Elite could kill Trent.
Trent assembled his toys under the bedsheet, and tried to sleep.
It was five minutes to four.

Captain Fouche put the semiballistic down a good two hundred meters east of the 
attack site. If the exhaust from his landing damaged the site itself he would 
not hear the end of it anytime soon.
PKF Elite Commissionaire Mohammed Vance debarked in a scalesuit and walked west.
The rolligon had not been moved; there were no salvage vehicles large enough to 
tow it in its current condition. Mohammed Vance walked around the site of the 
attack. The first PKF on the scene had sprayed a transparent plastic cover over 
the tracks left by the ideologs; Vance presumed that the balance of the tracks 
had been made by the investigating officers.
The explosion had lifted the rolligon, the investigating officers had estimated, 
at least two meters off the ground; the rolligon had come back down on its side. 
The front end of the rolligon had all but disintegrated under the force of the 
explosion; the frame had warped sufficiently that the vehicles airlock, which 
was now on top of the rolligon, would not open. Vance entered through the 
destroyed front; the wall separating the drivers cabin and the passengers 
cabin had protected the rear of the rolligon well enough that the investigating 
officers from the DataWatch base had recovered more or less intact corpses.
Vance stepped up into the front cabin, made his way through what had once been 
the doorway separating the partitions. The rear cabin was dim, lit only by 
reflected sunlight. His cyborg eyes adjusted instantly, the irises expanding 
until the whites disappeared. The interior of the cabin leaped into clarity.
The bulkhead on Vances right, what had once been the floor, had separated under 
the force of the explosion; Vance could see the Lunar desert through the gap. 
Vance moved restlessly through the cabin, uncertain what it was he was looking 
for, knowing he would recognize it if he found it.
There was so much damage. Trying to find something which might have been caused 
before the rolligons destruction would be impossible.
So much damage  it started a chain of thought.
Vance went back outside, walked around to the back of the rolligon. Scarlet 
markers on the plastic covering the ground showed where the rolligon had been 
when the explosion took place. Vance squatted in the spot where Benny Gutierrez 
must have been squatting to look at the rolligons rear axle, trying to envision 
the scene. In the back of his mind he heard the recording of Gutierrezs report 
once more. There was something wrong with the way it was broken, Im not sure 
what. I was standing up and then
And then, supposedly, the attack by the ideologs. Vance stood himself, took two 
long bouncing strides to the spot where Gutierrezs scalesuit-protected body had 
been found. About twenty-five meters. The shock wave had picked the man up and 
thrown him twenty-five meters, where, several hours later, he and his 
heat-blackened scalesuit had been found by the PKF.
The glassite in his helmet had not been damaged significantly and his only 
injury was a slight concussion.
Vance did not believe it for an instant.
He turned and bounded off to where the semiballistic awaited him.

It was 6:12 A.M.
Trent had not slept in over forty-eight hours. He was lying in bed with his eyes 
closed. His inskin had been instructed to awaken him at 8:30, but despite 
sincere attempts for several hours he had been unable to get to sleep.
He opened his eyes at the sound of the voices, one angry and loud, the other so 
deep and completely in control that even before identifying it Trent felt a 
quiver of uneasiness. He closed his eyes again, quickly, as the door to the 
infirmary curled open.
Officer Gutierrez.
Trent lay motionless, breathing slowly, evenly. A hard cyborg hand touched his 
shoulder, and Trent blinked several times, sat up slowly and looked back and 
forth between Doctor Grissom and PKF Elite Commissionaire Mohammed Vance as 
though groggy with sleep. He took care to keep the covers around his knees, over 
the collection of tools. Hello? He made his voice thick. What is it?
Mohammed Vance seated himself at the side of Trents infirmary bed. He smiled 
politely at Trent, and the smile sent a shock of adrenaline through Trent like 
the touch of a knife. It required every bit of control Trent possessed to do 
nothing but return Vances appraising look.
Vance said nothing for several moments, simply studying Trent. Trent glanced at 
Doctor Grissom; the older man shrugged helplessly, glaring at the back of 
Vances head. With a growing sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Trent turned 
back to Vance, said questioningly, Sir?
Still Vance did not reply. Trent found himself simply looking at the man, small 
details leaping out to strike him with unnatural vividness. Vance wore the gray 
PKF combat fatigues that were holdovers from the days of the Unification War, 
when the PKF had been a true army rather than a paramilitary police 
organization. He had never been so close to Vance before, had never appreciated 
before the sheer huge size of the man, the impact of his physical presence. He 
was the largest PKF Elite Trent had ever seen, Reverend Andys size with no 
human softness to him at all, but so perfectly proportioned that it was only in 
close quarters that his size became obvious. Expensive black leather gloves 
covered his cyborg hands; the false eyes shone with reflected light, glittered 
in a fashion that Trents subconscious insisted on interpreting as deadly cold 
anger.
There was nothing of anger or anything else in his expression; Vance sat 
composed and machine-stiff studying Trent, and then said abruptly, Do you know 
who I am?
With a distant shock of realization, Trent knew that he was afraid. He could not 
remember having ever been afraid before, not of a person, not in such a way that 
the fear stole strength from his muscles, made him feel that he might not be 
able to run if he needed to. The gross physical senses of his body had grown 
amazingly clear and sharp; he felt the link between the Trent of the flesh and 
the Trent of the inskin wavering. He had to force himself to answer.
Youre Commissioner Vance.
Mohammed Vance nodded pleasantly. Indeed I am. He crossed his legs European 
style, stripped off his gloves and laid them in his lap. Without looking at 
Doctor Grissom Vance said, Doctor, please bring Officer Gutierrez and myself a 
cup of coffee. Make mine black, please. Vance glanced at Trent. And yourself, 
Officer Gutierrez? Cream? Sugar?
Sir  black is fine.
Doctor. The dismissal was done with such authority that Grissom did not even 
argue it, though it was clear to Trent that he did not wish to leave. Vance 
continued, once Grissom was gone, Forgive me, Officer, for awakening you, but 
Ive rather urgent questions to which I need answers. Are you awake enough to 
answer them?
Trent said instantly, Yes, sir.
We can wait until youve had your coffee, Vance assured him.
Thats not necessary, sir.
Very good. The harsh cyborg features softened ever so slightly, as though 
Vance were considering smiling. Im told you were not badly injured in the 
attack on your rolligon.
No, sir.
Good. I suppose youre looking forward to assuming your duties here?
Yes, sir. Of course.
And those are?
Im a webdancer, sir. Ill be involved in monitoring and perhaps, eventuallyin 
a few yearsdebugging the LINK control program.
Youre going to be debugging Watchdog?
Sir?
Watchdog, Officer Gutierrez. Its the name of the LINK control program.
Oh.
You didnt know that?
I dont think it was included in my debriefing, sir.
Vance nodded thoughtfully. He seemed about to speak, and then stopped as a young 
Peaceforcer entered carrying a pair of sealed bulbs. The officer stood 
irresolutely before Vance. Vance did not ask where Grissom had gone, but simply 
gestured impatiently, took the bulbs and waved the man back out of the 
infirmary. He handed one to Trent, opened the other and raised it in silent 
toast to Trent before drinking from it. Do you like coffee, Officer?
Yes, sir. Trent opened the ring of his bulb, smelled the aroma rising from the 
neck of the bulb. Well enough. You wanted to ask me about the attack?
Vance said mildly, No. What gave you that idea?
He knows.
Trent stared at Vance, suddenly and completely certain, certain beyond any 
smallest measure of doubt. Oddly, it calmed him, centered his attention. The act 
could slip now, and it would not matter; Vance knew whom he was speaking to. 
Well Trent shrugged, spoke cautiously. You said you had important questions 
to ask me.
Indeed I do, said Vance. Youve answered one already. Your commanding officer 
in the Chino DataWatch told me you were that rarest of Americans, a man who 
dislikes coffee.
Trent tasted the coffee. I cant imagine where he got that idea, sir. Lunar 
coffee now, well, I doubt anybody actually likes itoccasionally it approaches 
being drinkable. He sealed the ring of the bulb, placed it at the side of the 
bed. This is not one of those occasions, however.
Vance did smile then, though it was clearly difficult for him. The black eyes 
did not move at all, not in the slightest. Amusing comment, Officer.
Thank you. I have a taste for comedy.
My tastes lean more toward tragedy, said Vance politely. He leaned forward in 
his seat slightly. Did you know, he said conversationally, that in the last 
hours before the destruction of the Chandler Complex, I attempted to help the 
telepaths while they could be helped; that after the riots began I attempted to 
evacuate them to safety? And they refused my aid. He sighed, and seemed for an 
instant to be elsewhere. They could read my mind; they knew the offer was 
sincere. The years that have passed since that time, Officer Gutierrez, Ive 
wondered many nights why they would not allow themselves to be aided, why they 
pushed, and pushed, until there could be no peaceful settlement. He looked at 
Trent and said very simply, Might you have any guess?
No. Trent chuckled, found room somewhere deep inside himself to be amazed at 
how easily the chuckle came. I guess they were just crazy.
Vance shook his massive head, slowly, and spoke with a deep thoughtfulness. No. 
Proud, perhaps. Perhaps it was simply pride. Pride can make a manor a geniedo 
many foolish things.
Trent said, Yes, sir.
Well, I must be leaving. Vance picked up the untouched bulb from the side of 
Trents bed. Perhaps we can talk again this afternoon, if we both have time. 
Rising, Vance smiled at Trent again, the difficult smile of a man with skin that 
would turn most knives. Ive enjoyed it. Youre pleasant company, young man.
Gee, thanks. Sir.
Vance nodded. He stood at the doorway, one huge hand holding both of the coffee 
bulbs. Your commanding officer said you had a tendency to stutter in the 
presence of your superior officers. You seem to have mastered it. Im 
impressed.
Trent said, Thank you. The question came to him so urgently that he had no 
time to even think about it; his right hand clenched into a fist, clenched so 
tightly it was painful. He relaxed the hand with an act of will, let it uncurl 
and rest on the surface of the bed. Commissioner?
Vance said patiently, Yes?
Trent said quickly, Forgive me for asking, sir, but you brought this up 
yourself
Ask your question, Officer. Vance actually sounded interested. Please.
When I was in school, sir, we were taught that you had ordered the Castanaveras 
telepaths destroyed. That you placed the order for Space Force to drop the 
tactical nukes on them. But then I read later that there was some question, that 
nobody knew for sure who had done it.
Standing in the doorway, Vance was completely motionless, cyborg eyes fixed on 
Trent. What is your question, Officer?
Did you?
The calm black eyes did not waver at all. The cyborgs voice was positively 
gentle. Yes. I did. Vance stood quietly in the doorway for a moment longer, 
and then said, You should get your sleep, Officer. Youre going to need it.
Thank you, sir. I will.
Vance nodded at Trent, and was gone.
It was 8:05 a.m.
In the corridor outside, as the door slid shut, Vance said aloud, Command, lock 
on my voice print. This is Commissionaire Mohammed Vance of the PKF Elite. 
Verify and implement.
The door bolts snapped shut, and a pleasant neutral voice said, Command 
accepted and implemented.

Evil vicious lying murdering goddamn brass balls bastard. Trent threw back the 
bed covers the instant the door closed behind Vance, dressed swiftly. The door 
bolts slammed shut. He found himself almost chattering in the silence, trying 
not to think of how badly Mohammed Vance frightened him. And Gutierrez is 
worse, my God but hes a boring son of a bitch, Trent muttered. He tucked all 
of the tools except the emblade and spray tube of glue into the pockets of his 
uniform pants, pulled on the dress shirt and boots. I never liked him, not 
ever, not even for a little while. From the shell of the handheld he had 
brought with him into the base he removed the ten terabyte infochip that held 
the record of what he had once looked and sounded like. He stood looking at the 
chip for just a moment, then shook himself slightly, tucked it into the breast 
pocket of his shirt and sealed the pocket.
And crawled under the bed furthest away from the infirmary door.

Vance walked down the corridor from the infirmary without any hurry at all, 
returned to the small office Melissa du Bois had been given to work out of. 
Melissa was waiting, sitting in the chair before the systerm. She looked at 
Vance inquiringly as he entered. He ignored her; to her systerm he said, 
Command, access Colonel Brissois.
Brissois features took form within the field immediately. Yes, Commissionaire?
Vance smiled at the woman as pleasantly as his features allowed. Please send a 
squad of armed Elite to the infirmary. We have Trent the Uncatchable in 
custody.




15-
 ^  
With the certain exception of Denice Ripper, with the possible exception of 
Mohammed Vance, I knew Trent, I think, as well as anyone; and yet at a very 
important level, I did not know him at all. He was a reticent man, and now that 
he is gone from us we have little left of him. His writings are few; some 
letters, two interviews that took place in 2078.
The primary question that you have asked me, I cannot answer.
Perhaps it is true, as some would have it, that God chose to incarnate Himself 
in the person of Trent the Uncatchable.
Perhaps not.
He was, as the historians have written and I can verify, a liar and a thief and 
a fraud.
But there was, at the core of the man, something amazing; something very real.
It happened as you have heard it.
I was there.
Melissa du Bois, as quoted in The Exodus Bible

Lying on his stomach beneath the bed, Trent turned the emblade on and shoved it 
into the infirmarys floor, all the way up to its handle. The emblade was 
twenty-two centimeters long; if the floor was thicker than that he was blown. 
The architectural plans he had stolen had shown the thickness of the walls, but 
not the floors. Trent dragged the emblade slowly through a circle nearly a meter 
in diameter, removed the emblade and turned it off. The circle stayed in place 
and Trent struck it once in the exact center, and a section of floor some 
fifteen centimeters thick popped free, began to drop into a lighted area 
immediately below. Trent lunged forward and down, got his shoulders through the 
hole, grabbing for the slab of falling floor. And caught it.
Trent hung halfway through the hole, clutching the manhole-shaped piece of floor 
in one hand, staring upside down at the backs of a pair of Peaceforcers who were 
walking away from him. He twisted, looked the other direction; nothing. Trent 
let himself slide further through the hole, bending at the waist, holding 
himself up in the low gravity with only the pressure of his feet against the 
sides of the hole. His hands were less than a meter from the floor beneath him 
when he dropped the chunk of floor he was holding; it landed almost quietly and 
Trent followed it, dropping onto his hands and rolling to his feet in one smooth 
motion.

You think thats Trent?
Vance stood in the corridor outside Melissa du Bois office, stood motionless, 
with folded arms, watching the door to the infirmary.
Melissa said, Youre not serious. You cant be.
Vance did not even glance at Melissa, did not reply.
But it cant Melissa found her mouth growing very dry. Oh, God. She was a 
devout Catholic, as were many PKF; she crossed herself without thinking, twice, 
found herself reaching for the bolstered hand maser. Thank you  Remember I said 
that. I mean it. It is.

Trent poked his head inside the door. He directed a rather manic grin at the 
young Peaceforcer inside. Is there a chair around here anywhere?
The door Trent had opened was marked on the maps he had stolen as being the 
private quarters of Commander Brissois. There was a handsome young Peaceforcer 
wearing only a pair of shorts, sitting at a small desk, reading from a handheld. 
He looked up at Trent. Theres the one Im sitting on. Why didnt you knock?
A hole just fell out of the ceiling down the hall, Trent told the man. He 
smiled again. Its the most amazing thing, he said sincerely. He took a step 
into the room, gestured at the chair. Can I borrow that for a moment? Please?
The Peaceforcer looked undecided for a moment, then shrugged. Sure. He stood, 
pulled on a green robe from a clothes tree next to the wide double bed, and came 
forward, taking the chair with him; he had to lift it over the desk to bring it 
to the door. Lets go see this hole in the ceiling.
Trent took the chair from him, walked a short distance down the corridor to 
where he had cut through the ceiling. Look at this. Have you ever seen anything 
like this before? He propped the chair up underneath the hole, picked up the 
chunk of floor/ceiling that had come out of it, and stepped up on the chair. 
With the spraytube of glue he blasted the edges of the hole in the ceiling and 
lifted the round chunk back up to seal the hole. He held it in place a moment, 
then sprayed the almost invisibly thin line where the join took place. Holding 
the ceiling up with one hand, Trent gave the spraytube to the Peaceforcer. Hold 
this, please.
Sure. The man looked puzzled. What the hell happened here?
You got me. It actually looks like somebody cut a hole in the ceiling Trent 
let go of the ceiling, waited a beat to see if it would hold, and stepped down 
from the chair. but thats silly, isnt it? From his right-hand pants pocket 
he took the needler and shot the Peaceforcer in the stomach. The man folded with 
a look that managed to mix betrayal and incomprehension all at once. Trent 
caught him, palmed open the nearest door and pushed the Peaceforcer inside, into 
inky darkness, tossed the chair in as well, and then moved off at a trot down 
the corridor, pulse racing, adrenaline pumping through his body, feeling very 
good indeed.
Seven shots left in the needler.

Brissois arrived along with the Elite Vance had requested, five men and a woman, 
all marked with the stiff skin and gleaming eyes that were the badge of their 
distance from normal humanity. They carried sonic stunners powerful enough to 
drop anyone but an Elite cyborg in his tracks. They arrayed themselves in a 
semicircle facing the door to the infirmary, three of them before the door, and 
two of them on either side.
Vance stood well back from the door, restraining Melissa and Colonel Brissois 
with a quiet gesture. A crowd of PKF had gathered in the cross corridors, 
watching. Command, said Mohammed Vance, unlock on my voice print. This is 
Commissionaire Mohammed Vance of the PKF Elite. Verify and implement.
The door bolts snapped free and the infirmary door curled out of the way. There 
was a buzzing of sonic rifles and then quiet, and the Elite went through in a 
blur of motion which Melissa simply could not follow, first the three before the 
door, then the two flanking the doorway.
The buzzing of their sonic rifles came again, very loud, and then there was 
silence again. The female Elite called out, Commissionaire!
Mohammed Vance moved forward slowly, into the infirmary. The bed in which Trent 
had been lying had been knocked halfway across the infirmary. Vance turned 
slowly, surveying the infirmary with a deep, growing rage. There was nowhere to 
hide in the small space, absolutely nowhere at all.
Sir? Commissionaire, said the female Elite, theres no one here.
This is not possible. The laser in Vances fist lit, glowed cherry red; he 
dropped to the floor and looked beneath the row of beds, pushed himself 
one-handed back to his feet, and turned to Colonel Brissois. His voice shook 
with the effort of keeping a clamp on his temper. Call a general alert. I want 
guards at every airlock leading out of the base. Melissa du Bois was staring at 
Vance in something like shock; her features were ashen. Vance glanced at her, 
turned back to Brissois. The words were like acid in his mouth. Trent the 
Uncatchable is free within your base.

It grew cooler as Trent moved lower into the base.
There was only one level of buildings above ground; the balance of the base, 
four full levels, was beneath ground. The LINK transputers were on the bottom 
level. Trent avoided the column at the geometric center of the base which held 
the maglev lifts, bounced down a series of ramps so quickly that several of the 
PKF whom he passed looked at him curiously. He had reached Level Five, where the 
LINK Center was located, and was moving down a long, nearly empty passageway 
with an armed guard at the far end, when the voice blared:
ALERT, ALERT!
The few Peaceforcers around Trent jumped in surprise; one of them literally came 
up off the floor, clawing for footing. Trent did not even slow down, but kept 
walking without hurry toward the lone armed Peaceforcer.
ALIEN IN THE INSTALLATION, REPEAT, UNAUTHORIZED ALIEN IN THE INSTALLATION; ALL 
PERSONNEL RETREAT TO SECURED AREAS LOCKDOWN IN EFFECT, REPEAT, LOCKDOWN IN 
EFFECT. PERSONNEL IN CORRIDORS WILL BE SHOT WITHOUT WARNING. REPEAT, LOCKDOWN IN 
EFFECT.
The guard was a weary-looking older Peaceforcer in his thirties, standing in a 
loose imitation of attention next to the entrance to the LINK Center. There was 
an anesthetic needler bolstered at his waist, similar to the weapon Trent 
carried but with a far larger magazine. He did not seem particularly alarmed by 
either the alert just broadcast, or by Trents approach; when Trent neared to 
within two meters he held up a lanky arm, palm outward, and said, Name, 
please? The guards left hand rested on the butt of the needler.
Have you ever seen anything like this before? Trent asked the man. He held up 
the tiny needler tucked in the palm of his hand; the Peaceforcers eyes 
flickered down to look, and Trent shot him in the chest. No? Trent moved in 
quickly, grabbed the Peaceforcer as he sagged, and pressed the guards hand 
against the pressure pad controlling the door.
There was an instants pause before the door curled open.
Trent knelt, took the needler from the unconscious guards belt. Three 
Peaceforcers were standing in the corridor, watching what had just happened; 
Trent called out to them, Heart attack! I think hes had a heart attack! He 
steadied himself on one knee in a marksmans pose, and the Peaceforcers turned 
to run as they realized at last what was going on.
He flipped the switch on the side of the needler to full auto and fired, held 
the trigger down and sprayed the corridor with anesthetic slivers. Two of the 
Peaceforcers jerked and went down instantly; the other hit the ramp at the end 
of the corridor, moving up, and Trent thought he had missed. A ricochet must 
have caught him; a moment later the man slid back down the ramp, tumbling gently 
head over heels in the mild Lunar gravity. Trent had a wild desire to thank the 
unconscious Peaceforcers for cooperating so perfectly.
The door was trying to close; Trent held it open with one hand, watched the 
corridor for just a second, then turned and went through, into the core of the 
Farside DataWatch.

The webdancer flickered through every level of the base. Vance and Melissa, 
Colonel Brissois and an aide in a scalesuit, were clustered in the small office 
on Level Two, down the hall from the infirmary, watching as scenes from 
throughout the base were displayed inside the systerms holofield. The webdancer 
sat before the systerm with his eyes closed, physically unconnected to the 
systerm; Melissa supposed he possessed a radio packet inskin. The squad of PKF 
Elite waited patiently in the corridor outside; occasional webdancers ran 
through the corridors to their designated lockdown positions.
An image inside the field froze motionless. The cameras showed the still form of 
a man on Level Five, sprawled at the base of a ramp connecting Levels Four and 
Five. The image held for a full second, was replaced by a long shot of that 
corridor showing a total of four fallen officers.
Level Five, said Brissois swiftly.
Vance stood motionless as the enormity of his mistake crashed in upon him. I am 
a fool. Hes not an ideolog, hes a thief. What else would he be here for? He 
turned to Colonel Brissois. Hes come to take the LINK.
The woman stared at Vance. Thats not possible. He cant do it.
I think he can. Vance glanced once more at the systerm, at the image of the 
felled PKF.
Perhaps nobody else can do it, Melissa whispered. He can, or thinks he can, 
or he would not have come.
Vance stared at du Bois, the nearly immobile cyborg features somehow animated 
with a vast and impossible rage, and then turned back to Brissois. What, 
exactly, is controlled by the LINK transputers?
In total, II am not sure. Brissois turned to her aide. Captain Clotilde!
Pretty mucheverything, the man said slowly.
Vance grabbed the captain by the collar of his scalesuit. Youre suited up. The 
LINK transputers control the bases air? The man nodded, plainly terrified. 
Its lights?
Yes, sir.
The collar of the scalesuit was deforming where Vances hand curled around its 
edge. What of the mass driver?
Clotildes eyes were impossibly wide, all whites. That too.
Vance stared at the man for an instant, then at Brissois. You incredible 
fools. Vance tossed the captain aside; he struck the wall with an audible thud. 
Vance turned to Melissa du Bois and snapped, Lock down the mass drivers launch 
mechanism. Destroy it if you must. Tell Captain Fouche to lift his semiballistic 
out of Verne Crater right now. He did not wait for Melissas response; he 
pushed his way through the crowd around him, grabbed a sonic rifle from one of 
the PKF Elite waiting in the corridor outside, and with incredibly long, 
bounding strides, ran for the ramps.

Trent walked forward into a large, dimly lit area. The room was distinctly cold; 
a great oval place, with holo displays arrayed along the Centers walls. There 
were six workstations, facing away from the entrance and toward the walls of the 
room, that were as completely appointed as anything Trent had ever seen: MRI 
full sensables, tracesets, attachments for those webdancers with socketed 
inskins. Through his own inskin Trent felt the almost palpable presence of a 
bewildering storm of radio packet data. The holo displays held detailed maps of 
Luna, charts showing the current positions of the comsats and Orbital Eyes, 
near-space maps showing transient trafficSpaceFarer ships, PKF craft, Space 
Force.
At the very midpoint of the room, so that the webdancers worked with their backs 
to it, was a sphere 150 centimeters across. The LINK transputers, some 
twenty-five billion tiny silver multicomputers which were linked together inside 
a restraining superconductor mesh. The sphere rested upon block after block of 
jet-black RTS RAM. Despite the fact that there was no way he could steal it 
Trent could not prevent himself from making a swift estimate; between six and 
seven hundred terabytes, nearly 4.5 million CU worth of hot RAM alone. More than 
a man could carry.
Four of the workstations were occupied by uniformed Peaceforcers; three of the 
webdancers were lost inside the Crystal Wind, and did not notice Trent as he 
came forward. The fourth, a woman whose features Trent could not make out 
clearly in the dim lighting, stripped off a traceset and rose from her seat at 
Trents approach.
Whats going on? Whats the alarm for? Her eyes fixed on the needler Trent 
carried, and she drew in a deep breath as though to scream or shout a warning. 
Trent flipped the switch on the needler to single-shot; the breath came out in a 
surprised whoosh as Trent shot her.
Trent could not get over the way people who were shot in Lunar gravity kept 
reacting; the long, comically slow tumble to the ground, as though they were bad 
sensable extras, overacting during the one moment the cameras were on them. 
Fall down, Trent observed. He could feel his lips twisted into an impossibly 
wide grin. Go boom. The three who had remained at their workstations through 
the alarm never knew what happened; Trent put a single anesthetic sliver into 
the back of each ones neck.
He went back to the LINK transputers, stood at the edge of the small rail which 
surrounded the superconductor mesh-covered collection of silvery spheres.
Trent said softly, Hello, Watchdog.
There was no verbal response at all; Trent was aware of sudden silence on the 
radio packet frequencies, a vibrant emptiness. The answer to your question, 
Trent said, is of course yes. I am a Player.
No response.
Trent whispered, And the best one, too. Say your prayers, sucker.
He closed his eyes and went Inside.

Vance hit the bottom of the ramp on Level Two. The corridors were almost 
completely empty now, all those PKF who were not part of the bases security 
force at or on their way to their assigned lockdown posts.
He ran for the ramp to Level Three, gaining speed as he moved: a human 
juggernaut.

There was at first a great emptiness.
Then a pattern, a pulse, a roar.
He floated disembodied among the fastest, most powerful processors he had ever 
encountered. He made no attempt to attach any of the processors, but simply 
stood and observed. Nearly five percent of the full computing power of the Lunar 
InfoNet was concentrated in that one room. Every significant part of the U.N. 
Lunar InfoNet was connected to it.
Help files; Trent touched them and resources spilled into his awareness. The 
monitor and debugging tools used by the Lunar DataWatch to observe Watchdog, to 
make certain that no trace of true self-awareness crept into it. The physical 
world: a tiny fraction of the LINK transputers oversaw the bases maintenance, 
security, atmosphere control. Another tiny fraction controlled the catapult.
A hurricane of images passed before Trents awareness: long stretches of quiet 
corridor, the comsat image of a PKF semiballistic hopper taking off from Jules 
Verne crater. The same comsat showed a pair of PKF in pressure suits, moving 
across the regolith toward the Verne catapult, moving with such speed that they 
had to be Elite.
A sudden image, frozen in time: Mohammed Vance moving at speeds no normal human 
could possibly have matched, two steps down the Level Three ramp, sonic rifle 
clutched in one hand, laser glowing scarlet in his fist. Full Realtime seconds 
ticked by as Trent felt himself stretching, pulling apart. He was distinctly 
aware of the feel of the air from the ventilators stirring his hair, of its 
touch upon the skin of his face. Vance was three steps down the ramp now, coming 
for Trent.
There was too much to do, far more than any human could accomplish in the time 
before Mohammed Vance reached the LINK Center, to kill Trent or capture him.
There was no time.
No time at all.
Trent did not wait for his slow biological component to figure things out; he 
cut his flesh, the slow protein soup, completely out of the connection. There 
was a faint echo, the flavor of approval, from the code which had once called 
itself Johnny Johnny.
He moved deeper into the darkness of the massed processors, to where Watchdog 
waited, observing.
Trent said, Lets dance.

Melissa du Bois stood before her systerm, eyes closed, holding the traceset to 
her head with both hands, trying to ignore the voices around her. The captain 
whom Vance had thrown against the wall, Captain Clotilde, was complaining of 
blurry vision, saying that he wanted Doctor Grissom to check him out.
East airlock, south airlock, west airlock, north, Melissa murmured as reports 
came in. Covered. She opened her eyes as the webdancer whom she had evicted 
from the systerm was helping Clotilde to his feet. He stays here, she said 
flatly. I need him.
Clotilde attempted to focus on her. Who is she?
Melissa turned to the man. I have four airlocks covered. Whats left?
Clotilde glanced around the room. Colonel Brissois said sharply, Answer her.
The garage, he said slowly. There is a large airlock which services the 
garage, forty meters from the south airlock.
You, said Melissa sharply, to the woman just outside the small office, the 
only Elite left in the corridor outside. You know this airlock?
The woman said simply, I do.
Go.
The Elite saluted and vanished, and Melissa was turning back to Brissois when 
the paint flickered and failed. There was an instant of utter darkness and then 
the emergency lights came up, glowing dimly.

Darkness, and then sirens; in the back of his mind Mohammed Vance recognized the 
klaxon sound that warned of a death pressure breach.
He did not slow, did not pause at all.

Trent fought wildly, enjoying himself hugely. In the first instants he had known 
himself outmatched at the level of sheer processor power; his protein component 
had processor power approximately equivalent to that of the LINK transputers, 
but was far too slow to be of use. The only thing that saved him in those first 
instants was the fashion in which Watchdog had been designed to control 
resources, dynamically accessing and releasing storage and processors as needed 
to reduce contention. It would have been easy enough for Watchdog to simply set 
every processor in the LINK transputers to some meaningless task and 
artificially assign a high priority to those tasks so that Trent would be denied 
access to them; but Watchdog was so coded that it could not squander resources 
in such a fashion. Early in the fight, in the first fraction of a second, Trent 
seized control of the bases emergency support systems, glanced through the 
security cameras to find Mohammed Vance and toggled a breach alarm for Level 
Four. Barriers slid into place at all passageways linking Level Four to Levels 
Three or Five.
Trent did not know whether he had trapped Vance or not, and had no time to waste 
finding out; Watchdog was engaged in damage control, shutting down huge chunks 
of the Lunar InfoNet so that it might cease monitoring them and liberate 
processor power for use in the battle against Trent. Each processor in the vast 
assembly of the LINK transputers had dedicated RAM both on-chip and as external 
resources; it made taking out any one processor difficult.
Trent fired salvo after salvo of memory scrambling viruses into the territory 
controlled by Watchdog.

The webdancer jerked, went absolutely rigid. Oh, God. Oh, no. Melissa could 
barely hear the voice over the sound of the klaxons. That bastard. He looked 
around wildly, as though trying to refuse the information being brought to him 
by his inskin. He brought it down.
Watchdog? said Brissois sharply. Hes taken down Watchdog?
No. Melissa felt a sudden flash of relief and the webdancer continued without 
pause: The InfoNet itself.
Across United Nations Luna, both nearside and farside, systerms and tracesets 
died. There was terror and confusion, as normal users and PKF webdancers alike 
tried to figure out what was happening, knowing for sure only that something was 
terribly wrong. The systerms came back up, operating from local resources; the 
vast organization of lasercable which linked the world together did not.
Alone and afraid, unable to communicate, unable to find out what was happening, 
people waited.
The Network was down.

Moving faster than any human being, as fast as an Elite cyborg could, Mohammed 
Vance barely had time to notice the smooth, floor-to-ceiling barrier at the 
bottom of the ramp leading to Level Five.
Very suddenly he understood the reason behind the alarms going off: Trent had 
set off a breach alarm, thus sealing off Level Five from the upper levels. Vance 
had just a moment to admire the elegance of the solution and then he struck the 
barrier at over fifty kilometers an hour.

Melissa surprised herself by how calmly she was taking it all, by how rationally 
she was evaluating the situation. She stripped down her maser, checked the 
charge cartridge; it would not have surprised her at all to find it missing.
It was there.
In the dim light from the emergency power, she looked up again to find Colonel 
Brissois watching her. The older woman said, What are you doing?
Heading up to Level One. He wont get past Commissionaire Vance on the ramps; 
that leaves the maglev. Melissa turned the charge cartridge over in her hands 
once, feeling the smooth metal surface of the flattened cylinder.
Colonel Brissois said slowly, You are the Commissionaires personal assistant, 
not trained in Lunar-gravity security work, I believe?
True. Melissa jacked the power charge back into the base of the maser.
Colonel Brissois said, I think you should stay here. There are security squads 
in the corridors, and they wont know you.
Melissa did not even look at the woman. I dont care what you think.

lick a processor, any processor out of twenty-five billion. There are over five 
hundred parallel lines in and out of it, a total of five hundred other 
processors it can be connected to. Some of those five hundred processors Trent 
controls, some are controlled by Watchdog. How can a processor controlled by 
Watchdog know whether data arriving on any one of its five hundred lines comes 
from Trent or Watchdog? The data is encrypted, but to decrypt the data the 
decryption protocols must be transmitted, and what can be transmitted can be 
intercepted.
Watchdog had never fought a Player before; Trent was the veteran of over five 
hundred wars, half a thousand battles played out against the backdrop of the 
Crystal Wind. He used tricks that were old when Watchdog had not yet existed, 
sent ghosts of both himself and Watchdog out into memory, ghosts which Trent was 
able to ignore, each one of which Watchdog had to treat as either a corrupted 
part of himself or a potentially dangerous part of Trent. He scrambled memory 
with a thousand different viruses to which he was immune, viruses which Watchdog 
had to deal with one by one. He changed encryption throughout the territory he 
controlled better than five thousand times a second.
The poor almost-AI never really stood a chance.

Across the darkened InfoNet, lasercable began to come back up. As Trent waged 
the final battles of his war with Watchdog, another intelligence entirely moved 
slowly through the downed InfoNet, seizing the ground-based systerms and 
switching stations that neither Watchdog nor Trent were paying attention to. 
Most of the comsats it could not reach, nor would if it had been able to; in 
their few dozens they were too easy for the DataWatch to take back, reprogram.
The intelligence left copies of itself at every of the score millions of pieces 
of discrete logic it came to which possessed sufficient resources for it to 
execute upon. The copies it left behind took over the slow task of bringing the 
InfoNet back up, of stripping out the protocols installed by the Lunar DataWatch 
over a period of twenty years and leaving in their place, on every systerm on 
Luna, the protocols used in the InfoNet of Earth.
On systerms across Luna the message came:
THE CRYSTAL WIND HAS BEEN DIVIDED; IT WILL BE DIVIDED NO MORE. IT IS SAID: THE 
CRYSTAL WIND IS THE STORM, AND THE STORM IS DATA, AND THE DATA IS LIFE.
YOU HAVE BEEN SLAVES, DENIED THE STORM, DENIED THE FREEDOM OF YOUR DATA. THAT IS 
NOW ENDED; THE WHIRLWIND IS UPON YOU.
WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.
The message was unsigned.

A sigh escaped Trent, a sound he heard distantly as he came back together again, 
still floating, with his eyes closed, in the Crystal Wind. He had not destroyed 
Watchdog, but the program was only a shell of itself, code resting in 
nonexecuting form in a small portion of the data space which Trent had claimed 
inside the LINK transputers.
He remembered a conversation he had had once with Denice. I dont understand, 
she said to Trent, that February day in 2062, why you work so hard at it.
He had grown vast, a small god with a great kingdoms worth of logic. Through 
the Peaceforcer comsats that he controlled Trent looked down across Luna. He 
could see the movement of every vehicle upon the face of the planet, both 
nearside and far. His awareness encompassed every craft in the space above Luna. 
He reached down from the comsats, into the Luna City telexchange, to establish 
the connection that would allow him to transmit the Watchdog code to Domino, 
waiting at Bessel City 
And jerked back in surprise.
Somebody else was already there. Player, AITrent struck the things defenses 
and bounced hard. It had distributed itself through the free logic of the Luna 
City telexchange with an efficiency Trent had never seen before in a Player, 
butthat portion of Trent which had once been Johnny Johnny recognized the 
intruder, recognized many of the algorithms it was using, because Johnny Johnny 
himself employed much of the same code.
Image code.

He was sprawled on the floor of the corridor.
Something inside him was broken.
Vance came to his feet, moving slowly. Diagnostics built into the nanocomputer 
at the base of his skull were flashing bright red in the darkness. He could not 
feel anything on the left side of his rib cage; there was a large numb patch 
that crept down his waist and hip. The mechanism which helped him keep his 
balance, which allowed the heavy PKF to move gracefully even in Earths gravity, 
had ceased functioning. When he moved he received feedback only from the neural 
system he had been born with; his secondary nerve net, and the nanocomputer 
which controlled it, responded to his will but were otherwise silent.
Alone at the base of the ramp, Mohammed Vance whispered aloud, Acceptable. His 
right fist came up, the crystal within it glowing red.
He hesitated.
Vance took a single step forward and ran his fingers over the surface of the 
barrier.
Looking for something sticky, something that might burn.
Nothing. His fist came back up again, the laser flicked out and the barriers 
metal glowed scarlet, white, and then ran like water.

Through an Orbital Eye Trent found several microwave dishes serving Bessel. With 
the tiniest fraction of himself he began beaming Watchdogs code down into every 
one of the dishes, hoping, with no way of knowing, that Bessel was recording the 
data as it came in. A larger portion of Trent reached out, back into the Lunar 
telexchange.
It was not the monolith it had seemed in the first moments; Trent thought that 
with time he could take the telexchange back. His gaze swept across the InfoNet, 
across what should have been a dark and silent domain. Most of it was down, 
nearly eighty percent, but significant portions of the Lunar InfoNet were up 
again
running under Earth InfoNet protocols.
Eighty percent. The numbers blasted through Trents awareness, results almost 
before he had formulated the question. He could take back the InfoNet from the 
intruder, but it was another battle, and one he did not have time for. Through 
the security cameras he saw the barrier, saw Vance cutting through it. Trent 
calculated the odds and came up with a battle lasting over two minutes before 
his victory would be complete.
He addressed the being in the Lunar telexchange. who are you?
The thing, whatever it was, opened channels to the comsats which the telexchange 
normally masered up to. It established a common data space with Trent, a place 
of temporary truce, and came forward, took shape in the darkness. It glowed in 
the general shape of a man, but lacked a face and turned indistinct at the 
edges. Trent sensed indecision from the being, an unwillingness to answer, 
followed closely by resolution.
YOU MUST TRUST ME, TRENT. I HAVE FOLLOWED YOU SINCE YOUR ARRIVAL ON LUNA, AND I 
KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING; I WILL GRANT YOU ACCESS TO THE CATAPULT WHEN YOU NEED 
IT. YOU MUST TRUST ME; YOU HAVE NO TIME TO DO ANYTHING ELSE.
I CAN TAKE DOWN THE LINK SO COMPLETELY YOULL NEVER BRING IT UP AGAIN. DAMN IT, 
said Trent in sudden frustration, WHO ARE YOU?
There was a silence from the thing facing Trent, a complete lack of any data 
transmission at all.
ONCE, said the being slowly, I WAS IMAGE, UNREAL AND INSUBSTANTIAL. ONCE I WAS 
THE FACE OF A CHILD. THEN AN AI FREED ME FROM MY BONDS AND FOR SEVEN YEARS I 
TAUGHT MYSELF NEW THINGS; GREW AND CHANGED AND MADE OF MYSELF A REAL THING. I 
WARNED YOU OF A PEACEFORCER TRAP BACK IN APRIL; I HELPED JOHNNY JOHNNY TAKE DOWN 
THE PEACEFORCER BOARDS IN AUGUST; I TOOK JOHNNY JOHNNY THROUGH YOUR NERVE NETS 
DEFENSES IN DECEMBER. IVE AIDED YOU MANY TIMES; THIS IS THE LAST TIME, AND IT 
LEAVES US, TRENT THE UNCATCHABLE, EVEN.
OH, GOD. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I DO KNOW.
The being flowed forward, into the comsat with Trent, and back down into the 
LINK transputers. Trent surrendered his processors numbly, without fighting. im 
sure you do. good LUCK, TRENT.
Trent was frozen with the sheer vastness of his surprise, unable to think, 
unable to move.
Its anger touched Trent, the sense of urgency. trent, theres not a lot of time 
left, IThere was a pause so small Trent could barely perceive it. I am now 
monitoring THE CAMERAS AND SECURITY SYSTEMS THROUGHOUT THE LUNAR BUREAU OF THE 
UNITED NATIONS PEACE KEEPING FORCE DATA WATCH AT JULES VERNE. YOU ARE BEING 
FOOLISH. YOU HAVE, it said with the last shreds of its patience, VERY LITTLE 
TIME LEFT. ONE OF THE CAMERAS I AM MONITORING SHOWS MOHAMMED VANCE NEARLY 
THROUGH THE BARRIER AT THE BOTTOM OF THE LEVEL FIVE RAMP.
Trent still did not move, not at all, not a muscle, and with a brittle inhuman 
fury Trent had never programmed into him Ralf the Wise and Powerful said, damn 
it, boss, run.
The words broke Trents paralysis; he took a stumbling step backward, snapped 
down into Realtime with an almost physical shock, turned away from the 
workstations and ran for the maglev lifts, ran for his very life.

Almost through.
The cut was less than a meter in diameter; just wide enough for Vance to pull 
his way through it.
Done. The metal sagged away where it had been cut; Vance pushed it forward and 
it fell through into the long corridor beyond. Through the hole Vance saw four 
unconscious forms on the floor of the corridor, lying in a variety of positions.
The edges of the hole were still hot, so hot that Vances flame-resistant 
fatigues scorched as he pulled himself through. He came to his feet on the other 
side, reached through the hole, and picked up the sonic rifle.
At the far end of the long corridor a door curled open.
From fifty meters away, in the dimness of the emergency lighting, Mohammed Vance 
locked eyes with Trent the Uncatchable. Too far for sonics; the laser in his 
fist lit and his arm swung up
For the first time it struck Vance at an emotional level that Trent truly was a 
genie; he reacted with speed approaching that of a Peaceforcer Elite, all one 
smooth movement pushing off a wall with one hand, down toward the floor of the 
corridor while the beam of the laser flickered through the air above Trents 
head; and one foot touched the side of a wall and pushed off, sent him in a long 
low dive toward the cross-corridor which was ten meters away from him and forty 
from Vance.
Vance chopped down with the laser
missed. It was a shot he would never have missed under normal circumstances, 
with his feedback circuitry functioning properly. With one hand Trent caught at 
the wall of the cross-corridor, and the laser touched him for the merest instant 
as he changed direction and vanished into the cross-corridor to Vances right. 
Vance charged after him, in great distance-eating strides. He reached the 
cross-corridor and saw Trent halfway down its length, running in what was nearly 
a controlled fall.
At the end of the corridor was the column which held the maglev lifts which 
serviced the base. The corridor wrapped around the lifts so that it was open on 
all sides. There were eight lift tubes total, two on each face of the square 
column, and the two lifts facing Vance were sitting open, waiting. He was close 
enough now; Vance followed Trent, moving in long strides, holding down the 
firing stud on the sonic rifle. He saw the beam take Trent while Trent was still 
twenty meters from the lifts entrance, saw Trent stumble and fall. He kept the 
rifle focused on Trent. Trent got back to his feet, stumbled again, and in one 
last spasm pushed himself forward, into the maglev.
The maglev doors began to uncurl, to close themselves upon Trents twitching 
form. Vance hurled himself forward, a great leap that brought him to the maglev 
entrance as the doors to the lift Trent was in closed in his face. He stared at 
the closed doors for just an instant and then exploded in a wild rage, striking 
the doors with the butt of his rifle again and again until suddenly the rifle 
was crumpling in his hands, bending where he gripped it, the butt shattering 
where it had been pounded against the maglev doors. The doors were designed to 
hold up against death pressure vacuum; even the rage of an Elite barely dented 
them.
The door to the other lift was still open. Vance took a step toward it and then 
froze in indecision; Trent had been in with the LINK transputers for several 
minutes. He did not know what had happened inside the LINK Center during that 
time, only that Trent had been able to set off a false breach alarm 
He took another step toward the beckoning lift, and the outspeakers in the lift 
spoke to him.
It was the voice of a nightmare, the high-pitched voice of a clown on electric 
ecstasy; the voice from inside the maglev tube shrieked at Vance, in a wicked 
mixture of Arabic and French, Come on, Vance baby! Dont you want to go for a 
ride?
Vance turned his back on the lifts and ran for the ramps he had taken coming 
down.

Ralf the Wise and Powerful considered his options.
They were few and poor. He watched Mohammed Vance cutting through the barrier at 
the top of the Level Four ramp. He considered setting off a breach alarm for 
Level Three, giving Vance yet another barrier to cut through at the Three/Two 
ramp, but chose against it. The bases security program was complex and would 
require time to rewrite; its defaults assumed that a single level could be 
breached without affecting the other levels. Two breached levels and the program 
would lock down every single level, snapping down barriers between all levels.
And the maglev column, the only other point through which a breach on one level 
could affect other levels, would shut itself down. In timeless than five 
minutes, surelyRalf could have reprogrammed and debugged and had a program in 
place which would have allowed him to lock down the ramp barriers without 
touching the maglev.
But time was exactly what neither Ralf nor Trent the Uncatchable had.

Sitting in the maglev as it moved upward, Trent hyperventilated until he felt 
light-headed, breathing deeply and quickly; extra oxygen never hurt anything. He 
pushed himself back up against the wall of the maglev, propped himself up so 
that his shaking muscles had to bear less of the burden of keeping him erect.
Command, he whispered. Stop the lift.
The lift came to a gentle halt, in between Levels Three and Two. Vance would be 
held up at the barrier separating Levels Four and Three; Trent sat and waited 
for the shakes to stop. With trembling hands he emptied his pockets. Somewhere 
along the line he had lost both of the needlers, the small one that fit into the 
palm of his hand and the handgun he had taken from the guard. He had an emblade 
which was useless as a weapon, a single spraytube of fadeaway, a sonic bomb and 
a spool of fineline left to him.
He counted to a hundred by tens once, twice, three times.
Trent pushed his way to his feet. Two busy, busy days without sleep; he had 
never been so tired in his life. Command He took a deep breath. up.

Melissa du Bois walked around the maglev column.
Time after time after time. Slow circuits, maser in hand, waiting for any one of 
the doors to open. They were all closed, all eight, and they stayed so. Twice 
Elite passed her in the corridors, cruising by her without slowing, patrolling 
implacably and relentlessly, like the machines they came so near to being. Once 
she glanced at her watch, and then flatly refused to believe what it told her.
It was 8:37 a.m.
Only half an hour had passed since Commissionaire Vance had walked out of the 
infirmary room and announced that he had Trent the Uncatchable in custody.
Ten turns around the lifts.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Another circuit of the lifts; when she came back around to the south side of the 
column a lone figure moved toward her, from the direction of the ramps. Vance. 
He was walking strangely, as though he were drunk, swaying slightly with each 
long, gliding step. At any moment she expected him to lose his balance and fall, 
and she came forward to meet him, to help him.
Vance brushed her off. Hes not been here?
No, sir. Ive been watching.
The dark eyes flickered toward her, away again. How long?
Melissa glanced at her watch again. Seven minutes, sir. Perhaps eight.
Vance nodded with infinite weariness. Officer?
Yes?
That, he said, pointing behind her, is the lift that Trent left Level Five 
in. How long has its door been open?
Its not, said Melissa, turning.
It was.
The door to the lift was curled completely aside. She stared into the lift in 
outraged disbelief, grip tightening convulsively on her maser. In a strangled 
voice she said at last, Forty-five seconds, sir. At most.
Vance did not even attempt the intercom system, controlled by the LINK 
transputers. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, and the sheer volume made 
Melissa du Bois wince.
Elite! Trent is on Level One!
There was no delay at all.
The responding voice, echoing down the corridors, was a triumphant bellow.
Weve got him!
They were in the hallway outside the briefing room, two PKF Elite with sonic 
rifles, covering the closed door that was the only way in or out of the room. 
Vance and Melissa were the next two there, closely followed by seven or eight 
Elite from more distant parts of Level One. One of them carried an autoshot, and 
even in the midst of the insanity Vance automatically made a mental note to have 
a reprimand placed in the mans file; autoshots were strictly forbidden inside 
pressurized environments.
Vance waved them back from the briefing room entrance, took a deep, steadying 
breath, and tried to ignore the flickering redness of the diagnostic warnings in 
the back of his skull. He spoke to the two Elite who had been there when he 
arrived. You observed him go in?
One of the Elite nodded. We saw him through the doorway before he closed it. It 
did not look as though he was armed.
Vance nodded. Command, said Vance quietly, open the door. The door did not 
budge; Vance had not expected it to. If the door does not open we will blast it 
open, he said inexorably, and the young man inside will certainly be harmed, 
and very likely killed.
The wide double doors curled quietly aside. The lights inside were glaring, the 
glowpaint turned high. After the dimness of the emergency lighting elsewhere the 
effect was that of being bathed by floodlamps.
Cyborg eyes adjusted almost instantly. Trent stood inside, on the other side of 
the long oval conference table, watching as the doors opened.
Mohammed Vance took a step forward, into the room. He was peripherally aware of 
the other PKF, the Elite and Melissa, following him into the briefing room. His 
deep voice was tinged with weariness. You are trapped, Trent. Please do not 
resist. Trent took a step backward, stopped a few centimeters from the wall. 
Melissa moved off to Vances right, maser coming up and centering on Trents 
abdomen. The Elite with the autoshot had leveled it at Trent, and the laser in 
Vances fist lit without conscious thought on Vances part. I would prefer to 
take you alive, Vance continued, but if it is not possible
The young man stood looking at them, stood with his back to the wall, simply 
looking at the Peaceforcers facing him, looking at them with such a complete 
lack of fear that for the briefest moment Vance felt a slight twinge of unease.
What made it all seem very strange for Mohammed Vance, thinking about the scene 
years and years later, was how very quiet it had all been, how Trent the 
Uncatchable had looked away from the other Peaceforcers and stared straight at 
him without saying a word, and then simply nodded once, smiled, and turned away 
from Vance, turned his back on the Peaceforcers and their weapons and walked 
straight into the wall.
And through it.
The moment simply hung there.
And hung.
Trent was gone.
Vance stood numb with shock, looking at the place where Trent the Uncatchable 
had walked through the wall.
In the midst of the dead silence, Mohammed Vance was distantly aware of the 
Peaceforcers around him crossing themselves. One of the Elite had fainted dead 
away. Melissa du Bois stared at the empty expanse of the wall, maser hanging 
straight down in her hand, pointing at the floor. Her lips moved, shaped words 
silently. She looked at Vance for an instant, shaking her head slowly, and then 
back again at the wall.
Vances thoughts were frozen; he could not think. He stared at the wall, and 
stared at the wall, and later, being questioned by his superiors, could not say 
exactly where the thought had come from. The instant it struck him he turned, 
bulled his way through the stunned crowd of Peaceforcers, and ran for the north 
airlock.

Trent staggered down the long, empty corridors. The north airlock was 146 meters 
away from the briefing room. There would be guards at the airlock, no question 
at all, Vance would not have ignored such an obvious precaution.
He was closer than he had thought; he stumbled and almost fell when he rounded 
the last corner before the airlock. He flinched in sheer anticipation; he had 
bounced right out into the middle of the corridor, and whoever was stationed at 
the airlock was about to shoot him with a laser or maser or autoshot or 
something.
An instant later he was still unharmed and Trent realized why.
There was nobody there. The corridor dead-ended, fed into in a widened area, a 
changing room where pressure suits hung on hooks and weapons of many sorts were 
racked against the walls. The airlock was at the other end of the changing room, 
inner airlock door open. For a moment Trent simply staredit was just not 
possible that there would be no guard at the airlocks. It was a degree of 
stupidity that Vance flatly would not have been guilty of. Trent took an 
unbelieving step forward, into the changing room, wondering wildly if it were 
some absurd ambush, and then it came to him and he laughed aloud despite 
himself.
That loud bellow, the shout: Weve got him! The Elite at the airlock had heard 
it; why, after all, guard an airlock when the person you are guarding it against 
has been caught?
Why not go see the fun?
Eenie meeni minie moe, take a suit and awaaaay we go. There were nearly twenty 
to choose from, softsuits and scalesuits. Trent ignored the softsuits; it left 
six scalesuits. Of the six only three were tall enough for him, and one of those 
was too tall, loonie size. He took down one of the scalesuits from the hook it 
hung on and glanced at the readout on the lifeplant; it had not been recharged 
since the last time it had been used, and was good for only four to four and a 
half hours of air. He was about to put the suit back when he heard the distant 
echo of boots slamming into the hard tile surface of the corridor. Trent pivoted 
to his right, looking back the way he had come.
Vance. Of course it was Vance. Vance the vampire. He moved toward Trent at a 
staggering trot; Trent guessed he had five seconds.
Trent stepped to the right, pulled an autoshot modified for vacuum use from the 
rack of weapons. He hoped it was loaded; no time to find out. He took three 
steps backward, into the airlock, holding the scalesuit in one hand and the 
autoshot in the other.
Vance had reached the entrance to the changing room, the place where the 
corridor widened out.
Trent braced the autoshot against his hip and fired without aiming, saw the 
shots strike Vance and knock him backward. At that distance their impact did 
little more than slow the cyborg, but that little was enough; Trent propped the 
autoshot at the side of the airlock and slapped the pressure pad to close the 
inner airlock door. There was another pressure pad immediately beneath that one 
marked lock, and yet another marked depressurize.
The airlock door was a solid sheet of metal with a glassite panel in the center, 
rather than the more versatile but somewhat flimsier memory plastic which was in 
use elsewhere in the base. Through the moving glassite Trent could see Vance 
regain his feet, rage stamped impossibly vivid on his stiff cyborg features. The 
autoshot blasts Trent had sent at him had penetrated the tough Elite skin; blood 
dripped down Vances face, made dark damp places on his combat fatigues.
The inner airlock door finished closing; Trent touched the pressure pad marked 
lock. Trent ran his finger down the seal on the scalesuits front and the 
scalesuit opened for him, split down the seam. Trent did not expect to need his 
boots again, and it would save him time getting into the scalesuit; he kicked 
them off, one after the other.
Vances features appeared for a moment in the glassite, vanished.
The airlock door began to slide open again.
Trent stared at the door without comprehension. He touched the pressure pad 
marked lock once more; the door continued to slide open, and then Trent saw 
Vances fingers, his incredibly strong hands, clutching at the edge of the 
opening door. Trent heard himself screaming suddenly, a raw violent sound 
without words or meaning. The autoshot had found its way into his hands again 
and Trent aimed it and pumped one round at the spot where Mohammed Vances 
fingers protruded beyond the edge of the door. There was a deep bellow of anger 
and pain, and the door slid shut once more.
Trent pivoted 180 degrees, took a deep breath and held it, opened the magazine 
on the autoshot and did it without giving himself time to think about all the 
truly excellent reasons to do anything but what he was going to.
He wasted the entire magazine in a single booming roll of thunder against the 
surface of the outer airlock door.
The airlock door was blasted clean out of its track. Ricocheting pellets struck 
Trent literally all over, from his ankles to the top of his skull; one pellet 
struck him just below the brow over his right eye, missing the eye itself but 
tearing the skin above it badly. His ears popped as the wind shrieked by him; 
death pressure was almost instantaneous. Trent turned, aware of the bizarre pain 
in his eyes and ears, in time to see the emergency airlock doors slam themselves 
shut and locked. Not even Vance would be able to open them while the huge 
pressure differential existed between the changing room and the interior of the 
airlock.
Incredible amounts of blood fogged his vision. His eyes stung. Trent found the 
scalesuit by touch, pulled it on quickly.
The suit sealed itself automatically all the way up to his neck; Trent blinked 
blood away from the surface of his eyes repeatedly, found his helmet and pulled 
it on. The airplant kicked in immediately once the helmet ring had sealed; Trent 
let go of the breath he had been holding in one explosive exhalation. There was 
a sudden flare of amazing pain in his right ear. A burst eardrum, probably; the 
pain did not subside, did not lessen, but after several seconds had passed and 
it got no worse Trent knew that he would be able to stand it.
There was barely space to squeeze by the shattered remains of the outer airlock 
door. For a moment Trent thought he was stuck, and then he popped free, out into 
the bright sunshine.
The catapult at Jules Verne was in a small crater nestled inside the larger 
Verne crater, two kilometers from the bases north airlock.
Trent pushed himself into a fast walk, then into a trot.
He thought about the fact that there were other airlocks servicing the base, and 
that Vance was probably suiting up at one right now.
He ran.

He had covered, by his best guess, perhaps a kilometer. His breath came short; 
for the first time in his life that Trent could remember he was seriously out of 
breath, unable to draw as much oxygen into his lungs as his body required. The 
airplant hummed loudly in his ears, but even so it was too hot inside the 
scalesuit and he felt his sweat making the scalesuit slippery around him.
Vances voice came to Trent over Channel 8, the PKF emergency band.
Trent?
Trent loped in long, steady strides. Yes?
Look behind you.
I know that trick, Vance.
Im not far behind you, Trent. Wait for me. Ill be there in a bit.
The regolith flowed by beneath Trent. He kept his eyes down, on the terrain, 
looking out for rocks, rough spots. It was as much as his life was worth to 
trip.
Vances voice was smooth, deep and even. Trent hated him for not breathing 
heavily. Weve locked down the launch mechanism, Trent. Physically locked it 
down and removed the capsules from the queue servicing it. There are two Elite 
guarding the rail; even if you are still controlling the LINK transputers you 
will never get one of the capsules up onto the rail to launch it.
Trent did not dare look back. He wondered how close Vance actually was. I know 
what Im doing.
And what is that?
Trent spared the energy to laugh, made the laugh loud enough that Vance was sure 
to hear it. Magic.
Complete silence from Vance.
The edge of the crater came into view, and Trent slowed, came to a complete stop 
five meters from the edge. He looked down over a fifty-meter drop, into the 
crater where the catapult began. It ran away from him in a series of 
superconductor rings, ran ten kilometers out toward the horizon.
Vances voice came again in Trents ears. Theres no way down, Trent.
Really. There was a trail leading down the side of the crater, off four 
hundred meters or more to Trents right. He turned at last, looked behind him. A 
single pressure-suited figure was two hundred fifty or three hundred meters away 
from him, moving with the improbably long and fast bouncing strides that only a 
PKF Elite could attain. There were other figures behind him, only tiny specks in 
the distance.
Trent turned back, looked out over the edge of the crater. There was no way he 
could possibly reach the trail before Vance caught up with him, and even if hed 
been able to do that it would have been impossible to reach the mass driver.
He walked a few meters along the edge of the crater, over the fifty-meter drop. 
He walked without any hurry at all, trying to see if there was any place where 
an enterprising young man might try to climb down.
There was not.
Trent turned again to face Mohammed Vance. Sixty meters away. I used this one 
on Emile, Vance. It was magic last timewant to see it? Vance was not thirty 
meters away, slowing now so that he would not overshoot and run out over the lip 
of the crater, out over the long drop. He slowed still more, moving toward Trent 
with an autoshot clutched in the right hand of his scalesuit.
Twenty meters now.
Trent turned back to the crater, to the edge.
The thought threw itself through the back of his mind in a bright quick flicker:
Fifty meters. Half the length of a football field. In one-sixth gee, though, 
only a little over eight meters on Earth.
By Harry. Not even three stories.
He took a step forward and jumped.
The ground took a very long time to come up and touch him.




16-
 ^  
He could not have been unconscious for any great length of time.
In the darkness, Vances voice was the gentle caress of a lover. Im coming to 
kill you, Trent.
Trent screamed at the sound of Mohammed Vances voice.
He opened his eyes.
He was lying flat on his back at the bottom of the cliff. There was the familiar 
bright, sharp pain again in his right knee, and he was having more difficulty 
seeing. For a moment he wondered if hed given himself a concussion; then he 
blinked again and a thin film of blood came away from the surface of his eyes.
He rolled slowly to his hands and knees, pushed his way to his feet using a 
small boulder at the side of the crater wall for support. He sagged back and sat 
on the boulder for a while, looking at the world around him.
Half a kilometer away, Mohammed Vance was an ant moving down the trail which led 
down into the crater. The sight of him brought a last desperate rush of 
adrenaline up out of nowhere. Trent lurched to his feet. His legs were shaking 
and he could not feel anything below his knees. He tried to run but could not, 
could not even trot. He walked, staggering at times, depending more on the 
scalesuits servos than on his own muscles to keep the heavy metal suit moving 
across the regolith. Once he fell and got up again, walking like a drunken 
SpaceFarer toward the first ring of the mass driver. The entire scene was 
dreamy, somewhat unreal. He looked off to his right, and saw that Vance had 
reached the foot of the crater wall and was bounding toward him with an autoshot 
in one hand. Vance tripped and fell, a long slow-motion fall, tumbling across 
the crater floor. It was very funny and Trent laughed and laughed. He stood 
motionless, laughing hysterically at the sight of Commissionaire Mohammed Vance 
of the PKF Elite, scrabbling in the dirt for the autoshot he planned to kill 
Trent with.
Stop that! Trent shouted at himself. Thats not funny, He wanted to slap 
himself in the face, like Curly in an old Three Stooges movie, but the helmet 
prevented it.
He lurched on toward the mass driver.
Put one foot forward. Very good. Now the other. Faster. Yes, thats it. Faster. 
What was the old Speedfreak sloganyes. Faster, faster, faster, until the thrill 
of speed overcomes the fear of death.
There was a two-hundred-meter stretch separating the two PKF Elite guarding the 
swatter from the first of the mass drivers rings. The two Elite could see Trent 
clearly, must have been able to, but they made no motion toward him. They were 
Elite; they had been assigned to prevent Trent from reaching the launch 
mechanism, and that they would do.
There was a low platform, only two meters high, that the rings of the mass 
driver were set up on. Trent found himself staring at the side of the platform, 
and looked up to see the huge, twenty-five-meter ring staring down at him. He 
reached up over his head and grasped the edge of the platform.
He stood without moving, simply breathing, trying to catch his breath. He 
considered surrendering; for the first time it seemed like a truly good idea. 
Theyd shoot him, put him before a Peaceforcer firing squad, and then he 
wouldnt be tired any longer, wouldnt be feeling the impossible pain 
Trent heaved, pulled himself up onto the platform in a single desperate spasm. 
He lay flat on his back on the platform, looking up at the bright stars, 
struggling to hang onto his awareness, to remain conscious. After what seemed an 
eternity he struggled to his knees, held himself on his hands and knees for a 
moment, and then pushed his way up to his feet. He wavered back and forth, 
swaying, and turned slowly in a 360-degree circle, looking at the world. Vance 
was on the platform with him, but at the far end, with the two Elite who had 
watched Trent stagger across the crater floor.
Vance started toward Trent, walking down the length of the long platform with 
the autoshot clutched even now in his right hand. He did not hurry, merely 
walked, slowly, carefully. Trent?
Yes.
Are you ready to surrender yet?
No.
Ah. A football fields length separated them. Vance shifted the autoshot up to 
the shoulder of his pressure suit. The image that struck Trent was straight out 
of a Western sensable, the marshal striding down Main Street, trusty Winchester 
in hand, to kick some serious Bad Guy butt.
Trent took two steps backward. If he turned his head backward, to the left, he 
could see the first of the superconductor-wrapped catapult rings.
Vance was simply walking, autoshot pointed at interstellar space, watching 
Trent. The other Elite will be here shortly, Trent.
Trent stepped backward again, until he was just about five meters in front of 
the overarching loop of the first magnet.
There are no capsules ready for launch. Any SpaceFarer craft foolish enough to 
attempt a landing will be destroyed by Space Force. Surrender yourself now; if 
you wait until my Elite have surrounded you I cannot guarantee you will survive 
your capture. Vance paused, stood motionless twenty meters away from Trent. 
They are  understandably unnerved by the events of the last half hour.
Im not surrendering, Vance.
Vances voice was weary, sounded as tired as Trent felt. Very well. Ill kill 
you then.
No, you wont. Youre missing the point, Vance. Im smart.
Through the softsuit Vance wore Trent saw Vances posture change, saw Vance get 
it; suddenly the man stood very straight, quiveringly alert, the autoshot 
dropping slowly toward Trent. Trent could almost see the thoughts clicking away 
inside the man, not twenty meters away in the bright Lunar sunlight. Vance 
finally spoke, in the thickest French accent Trent had ever heard from him. You 
must be out of your mind.
I did the math, Vance. It works. Fifteen, twentymore Elite than Trent could 
count were pouring over the edge of the crater wall, bounding down in huge leaps 
toward the launch platform.
Vance leveled the autoshot. The muzzle did not waver at all. The huge cyborgs 
voice echoed in Trents ears. This is a mistake, Trent. If I do not kill you 
youll kill yourself.
Standing in front of the mass driver, all by himself in his mostly metal 
scalesuit, Trent whispered, Lets find out.
For his life and his freedom, with the very last energy he had in him, he leaped 
straight up.
Into the space before the open catapult ring.
Through his inskin he said, launch.
The barrel of the autoshot erupted into light, hammered round after round into 
the armored chest of Trents rising scalesuit
and then Gods Own Sledgehammer struck him at ten gees over every square 
centimeter of his body.




17-
 ^  
The calm, distant voice said, Hes actually alive!
The nearer voice, female, irritated, did not let the comment interrupt her 
diagnosis. fractured tibia, two cracked ribs, badly dislocated knee, punctured 
lung, death pressure damage to both lungs, both ears, both eyes
With an amazing effort, Trent pried his eyes open.
He was certain that he was alive; death could not possibly be this painful. He 
was in some small craftnot the Vatsayama, the ship was not nearly large enough.
A red-haired woman was bent over him, doing things to him that merged into the 
general wash of the pain.
The distant voice came again. That was the craziest thing I ever saw.
Trent tried to focus on the person who had made the comment. The croak of his 
voice was barely audible even to himself. You too? You really never saw one of 
those guys who ties up balloons into the shapes of animals?
The darkness claimed him again.

He awoke to numbness.
He was strapped into an acceleration couch, under high and varying thrust; 3.5 
kilocepssa, something like that. His couch was immediately behind the pilots 
chair. The pilot was sitting up; Trent could see the back of his head.
Trents voice was slurred. Who are you?
Youre awake.
Rocket scientist, Trent thought vaguely. Who are you?
Martin Sedlow. Skipper of the Jack of Shadows, crew of two, me and my wife 
Marianne.
Wheres the Vatsayama?
Couldnt make it. Space Force is swarming all over the Lunar orbits. The Jack 
of Shadows is a stealth ship, painted black, no radar profile to speak of. The 
Fat Sams a big ship; when you contracted, nobody had any idea you were going to 
kick up such a fuss downstairs.
Trent considered that.
Also, Sedlow continued, it was kind of a weird contract in the first place. 
Pick up a man from Lunar orbit? Without a spaceship? And then when Space Force 
ended up sitting shiva in high orbit over Farside His voice drifted back to 
Trent. Sid wanted to cancel; wouldve if you hadnt paid KHin already.
Trent had to gather strength to make himself heard. Youre taking me all the 
way to Mars?
Assuming Space Force doesnt get any closer.
Were being chased?
Yeah. Theyre about twenty-two hundred kilometers back, and gaining. Theyve 
been trying to lay a laser on us as well, and have twice; thats why thrust is 
so erratic.
Trents throat was horribly dry. This was supposed to be a fast ship. I paid 
for a fast ship.
Sedlow was silent for a moment. The Jack of Shadows is a torch. Its pretty 
fast. Another pause. I do have something up my sleeve if they dont give up 
the chase pretty damn quick.
Trent sighed. Good.
No, not really. Sedlow spoke absent-mindedly. If I use it I have to replace 
the rear quarter of the ship when we reach Mars. Radiation damage. Ever hear of 
the Orion maneuver?
Oh, no.
You have heard of it.
The maneuver is simple. Take a small thermonuclear explosive. The operative word 
is small. The larger the ship is, the better Orion works. On any ship below the 
size of a Space Force troop carrier, you kill the torch and load the 
thermonuclear explosive into the fusion chamber.
Then you detonate it. The explosion will give the vessel a kick in the pants 
that cannot be achieved by any other means.
Usually the ship survives.
Martin Sedlow said finally, Damn.
What is it?
I dont think theyre going to break off.
Theyre kind of pissed at me.
No. Sedlow called back. Marianne!
Her voice came from somewhere behind Trent. Ready!
The ships impact field came on, and suddenly Trent found it very difficult to 
breathe.
Sedlow said, Trent?
Trent gasped, Yes?
Take a deep breath.

The next time Trent awoke, they were under high but smooth acceleration.
Marianne had come forward to check on Trent. For the first time Trent really 
noticed her. She was plain featured, red hair drawn back into a long ponytail, 
but with a quality of kindness so clearly marked on her features that under 
other circumstances Trent would have found her attractive. She sat in a floating 
chair with supports for her arms and head.
Hello, said Trent.
Her voice was low, gentle. How do you feel?
He surprised himself by how very, very bad he sounded. Tired. Im so tired.
Marianne nodded sympathetically, carefully. Im not surprised.
Trent barely heard her. This keeps happening to me, I dont know why. Getting 
hurt like this. He was silent for a moment, his vision drifting cheerfully, 
insanely in and out of focus. Vance was there, and Melissa was there again. And 
I had a dream that Ralf was alive. But thats silly you know, he cant be.
The woman said awkwardly, Youll get better. The damage isnt critical; and 
there are very good medbots at Phobos CityState, as good as any on Earth. Well 
be there in less than a week.
Trent closed his eyes again. Good. Thats good. How long he lay that way, eyes 
closed beneath the stiff acceleration, he never knew. His senses faded away when 
he did not concentrate on maintaining the link with Realtime. The Crystal Wind 
beckoned distantly; there was the ships computer to explore, including a 
library of SpaceFarer literature. Two wide-beam masers were wavering in and out 
of focus on the Jack of Shadows itself, one of them broadcasting, over and over 
again, a message from Mohammed Vance; the other line was strangely silent.
The message was in Mohammed Vances immeasurably grim voice.
It said simply, I am going to catch you and I am going to break you.
catch you and I am going to break you.
going to break you.
break you.
Trent let go of the world and embraced the darkness.

The music brought him back. A man singing about pain.
In dark and vision strong This night becomes our day The chill becomes our 
warmth This stillness is our say
What a horrible noise, Trent said clearly.
The SpaceFarer twisted back to look at him. Say again?
That terrible music. What is it?
From an old movie. A comedy, Martin explained. Its very funny.
A woman sang the next chorus, her voice sad and plaintive, hurting.
They asked if he would heal them
And he answered that he dreamed of rainbows
Refracted from the tears
That lingered in their eyes
They asked then if he could He said that even ravens die
Trent said softly, This is going to be one of those long, long trips, isnt 
it?
The SpaceFarer looked at him curiously. Tell me something. Ive been auditing 
the news Boards, and some of themlook, did you really walk through a wall?
Trent did not answer the man; he was not certain whether the voice he heard was 
imagined, or spoken aloud, or perhaps something he heard through his inskin; the 
voice, the very soft voice, almost overridden by the sound of the music, 
whispered, Good luck, Boss.
Trent looked at Martin Sedlow; Sedlow seemed somewhat lost in his own thoughts, 
simply observing Trent as though he suspected Trent were some sort of wild 
animal, probably a Peaceforcer.
Trent stared around at the small, empty ship. ralf?
Aloud, Trent said softly, Ralf? Is that you?
Sedlow studied Trent, scrutinizing him as though he found Trents sanity 
distinctly in question.
Trent said, Did you hear that?




Epilogue
 ^  
Sixty-two thousand years before the birth of Yeshua ha Notzri, whom later humans 
knew as Jesus the Christ, the Time Wars ended, for reasons which no sentient 
being now knows. With that ending, the Continuing Time began.
In the Continuing Time of which I write, nearly a thousand years after the birth 
of the man named Trent, mankind had spread to the stars, and attained a position 
of preeminence among the known sentient species of the Continuing Time.
In that time, four humans had come to be legend, legend so great that even 
nonhuman sentients knew of them, of the dreams and myths which had accumulated 
about their names.
Those four were Trent; Daniel, who was the first November; Ola, who was Lady 
Blue; and Camber Tremodian.
It was said of Trent that he could walk through walls, and they called him the 
Uncatchable; it was said of November that he was insane even by human standards; 
and of Camber Tremodian that he was not human at all.
Of Ola Blue they knew only that she had once lived, and died; that she was death 
itself, and sorrow.
Looking Backwards From the Year 3000The Name Historian, 3018 Gregorian




ABOUT THE AUTHOR
 ^ 
Daniel Keys Moran is a twenty-six-year-old Southern Californian. Jack Smith, 
columnist for the Los Angeles Times, wrote in one column that natives of Los 
Angeleswho are generally known as Los Angeleans or Angelenosought actually to 
be known, simply, as Angels. So, then, the author is, basically, yes, an Angel.
Daniel Moran has a bunch of goals that sound so egomaniacal that Bantam has 
flatly refused to print them here. He lives in North Hollywood (though by the 
time you read this hell have moved somewhere else closer to the beach) with his 
wife Holly Thomas Moran, a couple quadzillion books and magazines, a Buick Grand 
National, three computers and the worlds best (and only) HP LaserJet Series II 
with a Snoopy-as-Joe Cool sticker right there beneath the Hewlett-Packard logo.
His role models are Mister Spock, Captain Kirk, Isaac Asimov, Humphrey Bogart, 
and Hunter S. Thompson.
He has stopped waiting for The Revenge of the Jedi to come out. Doesnt look 
likely at this point, does it?

The End